


Everyone's a Critic

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Eat, review, love [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (well - bisexual panic), Angst and Humor, Charlie Ships It, Chef!Dean, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean in the closet, Dean lying about things, Food Metaphors, Gay Panic, Humor, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Misunderstandings, One night stands leading to relationships, Panic, Romance, Romcom style, Sexuality Crisis, alllll of them, by accident, food critic!Cas, restaurant AU, writer!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-04-20 04:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 109,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: The one where uninspired chef Dean Winchester has a one night stand with the male (!) food critic who described the flavour of his garlic bread as 'closeted' and accidentally ends up dating him to try and prove that he's akick asschef, thank you very much.(He may have a point about the 'closeted' thing).





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this might be one of those things that I think is funny that everyone else is just going to be like... huh? But, yes! It's been a while since I've written any light hearted stuff and I initially wrote half of this over a year ago, then was suddenly re-inspired this weekend.

The problem with actually achieving your life dream, is that a lot of the time it doesn’t feel that _dreamy_ when you haven’t had a day off for two weeks, the person you hired to manage the business side of your actual business is a total fucking asshole who probably knows what he’s talking about and your autumn menu completely sucks.

He’s having the chef equivalent of writer’s block, whatever the hell that is, and the trip to the farmer’s market with his little brother that was _supposed_ to provide inspiration is just making him frustrated and pissy, because Sam won’t quit nagging him.

It started with the usual crap about Dean not taking enough time off and not taking care of himself properly, like Dean hasn’t explained how running a freaking restaurant works thirteen thousand times by now. _Sam_ is the one who coerced him, lovingly, into quitting his job at the fancy-ass restaurant that was slowly sucking away his soul and setting up his own burger place, so Sam only has himself to blame that Dean is overworked, stressed and kind of an asshole right now. Then it segued into Sam trying to give him a whole load of suggestions to get him out of his food related funk, which was about as helpful as the comment card he got last week saying ‘I don’t like burgers - please add more variety to the menu’ like his place isn’t _specifically_ a goddamn burger place. 

Whatever. 

“Just _take_ the tomatoes, Dean,” Sam says, gesturing wildly, his stupid hair getting in the way of his face, “It might help.”

“Sammy,”

“Obviously, if you don’t actually _cook_ anything, you’re going to struggle with inspiration.”

“How many times have I gotta tell you I don’t have _time_ to cook in my spare freaking time?” Dean asks, but he’s already getting his wallet out to pay for the tomatoes, because there’s no goddamn point arguing with Sam when he’s this petulant. The kid has the weight of a whole law degree and twenty five years experience being a total pain in the ass behind him. Realistically, Dean lost this argument when Sam learned how to pull out the puppy dog eyes aged six and a half. He doesn't have the patience to fight the inevitable today. 

“You’re off after the lunch shift today, right?” Sam says, puppy dog eyes in place, “ _And_ you have a day off tomorrow. You can cook then.” 

“And who's gonna _eat_ all this goddamn food?”

“How about your brother, who's too busy studying for the bar to cook?” Sam says, a look of incredible satisfaction slipping on his face, because fuck knows Dean can’t turn down _that_ , and Sam knows that too well. “Seriously, Dean, having something I could just heat up would be…”

“Okay, okay,” Dean grumbles, “Quit laying it on me. I’ll cook you some study food. Buy whatever you want.” 

“I really think it will help,” Sam says, nudging him with his arm, “To cook for someone else. Not just for the restaurant.” _That_ sounds like Sam’s setting himself up a conversational opportunity to shift the conversation to Dean’s love life, which is _so_ off topic this morning. No freaking way. “To remember that you _love_ cooking,” Sam continues, voice all gentle and irritating, because…

He’s right. Cooking was the first thing that felt right. That got him excited about his _own_ future, rather than just a meal ticket to get Sam through law school. He fell in love with it. The simple, pure joy of putting together something that could make someone full and content and _happy_.

Maybe he’s never going to change the world, but he can put together the kind of plate of food that people talk about with reverence a month after the event. He knows how flavour works. He knows how much comfort there is in a home cooked meal. He can do that for other people. 

Except, right now, when his autumn menu is an insipid, confused mess and he has no goddamn idea where his inspiration used to come from.

*

Marv corners him after the lunch shift to talk at him about numbers. 

The upshot of the whole damn thing is that profit growth is down, again, which is apparently a big problem. Honestly, Dean figured that at some point things would level out, because the surge of _success_ that hit him out of nowhere wasn’t what he was anticipating when he first opened. He’d done his research. Read up on new restaurants, took courses in businesses and restaurant management and used all of it make a case to Sam and Bobby and everyone that was behind him that it was a terrible idea, and he should just go back to working at the Roadhouse where at least he wasn’t liable to lose every single cent he’d saved up to cover some of Sam’s college fees.

Except, Sam got a full ride and wouldn’t touch a single dollar.

And now he has to deal with _Marv_ , which is only slightly better than when he was running all the day to day business side of things himself. He’s not cut out for crunching numbers and balancing the books, so in theory Marv should make his life a lot easier, it just doesn’t _feel_ like that when Marv is riding his ass again about something Dean’s not entirely sure he believes is a problem.

If profits are still growing, why does it matter if they’re growing _slower_ than they were before? 

“The current expenditure on wait staff is -”

“- look,” Dean says, cutting across him as he shrugs off his chef whites, “I am officially _off the clock_ , so just - email this to me and I’ll deal with it. Capisce?” 

“Hey, bossman,” Charlie grins, appearing out of nowhere, “We’re getting coffee. Wanna come?”

“No,” Dean says, a little too curt, “I’m going home to cook.” 

By the time he gets back to his apartment, Marv has sent him a seven hundred word email that basically amounts to the fact that he thinks Dean should either cut the wage of his wait staff or fire someone, which is a hundred percent _not_ what he wants to deal with right now.

He shuts his laptop with a decisive click and heads to his fridge. 

Sam dropped off the food at his place because he had to get to the restaurant, which means that his little brother is the one who’s reorganised his fridge to how he always used to insist it should be when they were kids. Dean’s pretty sure that before Sam’s interference there was just a six pack of beer and some bacon shoved in there somewhere, but Sam’s taken it upon himself to fully stock his kitchen. He must have gone to another grocery store after they were done at the farmer’s market which is… well, Sam is a well meaning, interfering idiot, who Dean’s lucky to have.

He has the kind of fresh, gorgeous produces that he would have loved to have at his disposal even five years ago. Now, it leaves him feeling flat, a little hollow and _inadequate_. 

Dean puts on Led Zeppelin, because that _always_ helps, except for the fact that it doesn’t today. He grabs himself a beer and stares at the photo of Mary Winchester tacked on the fridge. He rereads the email from Marv twice. He ignores three excitable texts from Charlie about how his cooking is doing. On three occasions, he starts getting out the ingredients for _something_ before he realises that his idea sucks and puts everything back. He drinks a second beer while glaring at the stupid list of crappy, mundane dishes he’d written out for the autumn menu last time he’d tried this. He orders himself a take out while he drinks his third beer, because it doesn’t look like food is happening in his kitchen anytime soon. 

He’s just finished draining his fourth beer and ripping up his autumn menu plan into tiny pieces when his take out arrives.

It’s okay. He eats half of it and shoves the rest in the fridge for tomorrow then decides _fuck this_ , grabs his wallet, and goes out to get well and truly drunk. 

*

His body clock is permanently set up as if he’s cooking a lunch service, so even though he stayed out till two drinking too much and picking up some fucking _gorgeous_ guy with a dumbass name he can’t remember, he still wakes up at six AM. His head’s fuzzy from too many beers and he feels vaguely shitty about his whole goddamn existence in that way that he normally does when he succumbs to getting drunk and sex to try and feel alive. 

This would normally be when he’d make his exit, but for some reason good old fashioned common sense wasn’t in play last night, and they’re in _Dean’s_ apartment. Goddamn, but Dean’s an idiot when he’s dwelling in his misery. 

Charlie calls while he’s waiting for the coffee to brew and trying not to overthink what’s going to happen when average height, dark and handsome comes out of his bedroom and Dean has to think about the fact that, four hours ago, he was lost in the feel of the guy’s stubble against his skin as they kissed, hot and clumsily and desperate to get somewhere. That he drank his way to enough dutch courage for him to voice, out loud, what he wanted and, damn, did nameless guy deliver.

“Hey.”

“Don't freak, but -” Charlie begins, in lieu of hello, and a feeling of exhaustion starts creeping up on him. 

“Charlie,” Dean says, voice coming out a little deadened, “It’s six AM on my day off.” 

“I said don't freak!”

“This isn't a freak. This is _it's barely daylight_ outside.”

“Wait, are you okay? You sound all sad,” Charlie asks, which is exactly why Dean should have just turned his fucking phone off the second it started ringing. He can’t deal with this right now. It’s _Charlie_ , so the chances are she’d get it more than anyone else he knows, but…. He can’t.

“Charlie, cut to the chase.”

“You got another review last night.”

“You called me about a fucking food critic? Now? Charlie, I don’t give a damn about what some pretentious, soulless douchebag has to say about my freaking burgers,” Dean grouses, grabbing himself a mug and pouring his coffee. 

He kind of hates food critics as a matter of principle because it buys right into that bullshit mentality of over complicating good food. Sure, he's spent a long ass time oversampling menus and fine tuning spices, but that's so that the people eating his food don't have think. They've just gotta _eat_ and enjoy and not spend so long frigging analysing the damn thing to death. He makes burgers. He makes _damn good_ burgers, but he didn't start making them to have some wisecrack who can't even cook assess whether he's modern-rustic or _rustic_ or just an out and out rejection of modern cuisine. As far as Dean's concerned, good food is like good sex; awesome, to be enjoyed regularly with equally awesome people, then to be thought back on with vague fondness but certainly not assessed to death, and definitely not dissected on some blog.

(The analogy breaks down right about the point where he feels a weird mixture of guilt, shame and panic when he thinks about getting fucked into his mattress last night. The only time food has ever made him feel that off the next day is when he had food poisoning, but that's not the point. That baggage is separate to this whole thing.)

The thing that Sam doesn't seem to get, is that his frustration with food critics just seems to increase with the good reviews coming. These days, jumped up foodies actually like his food; they said shit like 'groundbreaking' and 'transporting' like he's doing something profound rather than serving up kick ass burgers. He's got a waiting list and he's upped the price of the food. He's got courgette fries on the menu. He's got a frigging wine list and Dean's sure it's the shitty critics fault that his homely burger joint somehow segued into a freaking _restaurant_ , which is kind of what Dean wanted, he just didn't see it panning out quite like this. Maybe he's just not used to things in his life turning good, but it's unsettling when he wakes up to another food magazine printing how he 'continues to innovate' and has created a 'unmissable eating experience.’ Especially when he has no fucking idea what the hell he’s doing anymore, and hasn’t been able to come up with one palatable thing to put on his autumn menu. Dean feels more like a hack then ever and these freaking _critics_ keep eating it up.

Sam says it's Dean's fault for cooking too well.

“You don’t care, really?”

“Fine.” Dean mutters, wedging his phone under his ear, “What did they say this time? My burgers are like the personification of a summer morning?”

“He didn't like it.”

That, Dean wasn’t expecting. 

“What?” 

“Well, he didn't hate it. He does this bit where he characterises the restaurant owner by the food and the menu and uh…”

“Since when do critics do bits?” Dean asks, dragging out a chair to sit down, massaging his forehead as he drinks more coffee. He feels like crap. This day is so far turning out worse than yesterday and it’s barely past the asscrack of dawn. He wants to crawl back into bed and be done with the whole thing, but there’s someone _in_ his bed, and that someone is six foot of runners-muscles and undeniably male.

He said, after last time, that he wasn't going to do that again. That it wasn't worth it. That he wasn't doing _that_ anymore.

“He's a food blogger.”

Oh, fuck that.

“Damnit, Bradbury,” Dean says, “I’m not _listening’_ to some millennial asshat thinking he can trash talk my food just because he can use the internet.”

“But he’s super popular! And he, like, guest writes for a couple of magazines.” 

“So he hates my food and he thinks what, exactly, about me?”

“Um…. He said you were having an identity crisis stemming from peaking too soon and now you're suffocating under weight of success. He suggested you channel that into getting a regretful piercing rather than… butchering your menu. He had the mac and cheese burger reboot and the cheesecake. He liked the cheesecake. Ish.”

“He got that from a frigging burger?” Dean asks, headache beginning to bloom into a full on freaking migraine. He needs to see this fucking review. If some hipster instagram type is assassinating his character - albeit pretty fucking accurately - he needs to see it.

Dean pulls his laptop towards him and boots it up.

“He like, personifies the food, it's good. He's hella entertaining. Unconventional critic born of the internet age. Get your laptop, I’ve emailed you the link.”

“Already loading,” Dean grunts out, “You have some kind of word crush on the guy or something?”

“Shut up. He does three pieces for every place. Says second impressions are important. So he's gonna be back at some point this week.”

“And?” Dean asks, hitting open.

“And we could use impressing the guy!” Charlie says, six kinds of enthusiasm packed into her voice, all of them irritating this early in the morning. The guy’s website is actually pretty non-douchebagy, as it goes. Castiel. The name sparks some memory somewhere in the back of his head, but he draws up a blank. Dean clicks through onto the latest post about his restaurant, and finds himself face to face with a bunch of photos of his food. “His words have power. Plus, he’s super cool.” 

And then there’s a picture of Castiel.

“Fuck,” Dean says, his chest seizing up, because _oh no_. Oh, hell fucking no. This isn’t happening. Can’t be happening. 

“Dean?” Charlie asks, her voice suddenly titled in confusion, “Dean?”

“I - fuck.”

“What’s happening?”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dean says, as his gaze skims the rest of the page, heart racing, stomach plummeting. He feels a little like his having some kind of medical emergency, or maybe a panic attack, and the more he reads the worst all of it feels. “Charlie,” Dean manages, his voice hoarse, “Charlie. This is bad.”

“What?” Charlie asks, “Okay, the review isn’t great news, but -”

“No, Charlie, he’s _here_.”

“Where?” Charlie asks and, goddamn, he’s started now. He can’t believe he’s fucking doing this, but --

“In my apartment. This Castiel guy,” Dean says, slamming his eyes shut, grip on his coffee tightening.

“What? Why?”

“Ask an adult when you're older,” Dean manages, in his best attempt at light hearted, as if this isn’t a massive deal. His heart stops as he waits for _something_ back from Charlie.

He needs her to get it, because he’s not sure he’s capable of spelling it out more than that, and then he needs her to… to not make this into a massive deal. To not ask questions. To not turn around and say ‘duh, Dean, everyone knows you like dick’ because he can’t handle that without having some kind of heart failure, and if he has heart failure Castiel will probably be the one to call the ambulance and that is _not_ how he intends to come out to the world (not that he intends to come out to the world, period.)

“ _Dude_.”

“Charlie,”

“Good work, Winchester. He is _dreamy_ ,” Charlie adds, and some of the tension starts leaking out of his shoulders and he feels kind of dumb for how high his anxiety levels shot up in the first place because _obviously_ Charlie doesn’t give a damn that he picked up a dude at a bar. Obviously. 

Still. This isn't something he acknowledges. Not when he’s sober and not to someone he isn’t trying to talk into bed. He’s has something bordering on this conversation with Sam, a long ass time ago, but no one else. 

“Right,” Dean exhales, “Except for the part where the guy wrote a three page _blog_ about how my restaurant is overcompensating and my menu is trying too hard.” 

“Dean, I love you, but you over compensated so hard you denied you played for both teams,” Charlie says, “For three years.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Dean says, his chest tightening again, “Often.” 

“Okay, well, we can talk about that.”

“Charlie, he said my garlic bread was _closeted_.” 

“Dean,”

“On the internet,” Dean says, “The internet that everyone has access too.”

“I think we should revisit the part where he’s in your apartment,” Charlie says, “because, uh, he’s probably going to _wake up_ at some point. How do you want to deal with this?”

“Goddamn,” Dean says, trying to breathe, “Holy… fuck, Charlie, is that really how we serve the mac and cheese burger?”

“Is this really your top priority right now?” Charlie asks, her voice a little high pitched.

“Charlie.”

“Uh, yeah. You okay-ed Marv to revamp the plating as long as you didn't have to think about it,” Charlie says, “Dean… you just came out. We should probably talk about that.”

“I said he could go all restauranty, I didn't say he could third my portion size.”

“He’s _in your apartment_ ,” Charlie says, “Castiel, the food blogger. Asleep.”

“Goddamnit.”

“Was the sex good, at least?”

“It was fucking awesome,” Dean says, slamming his laptop shut, “Charlie. What the hell do I do?”

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing,” Charlie says, “Holy Hermione, that is a messed up situ.”

“No kidding,” Dean grumbles, jabbing at his coffee machine again.

“He’s, like, literally in your apartment, and he outed you because of your garlic bread.”

“Yeah he's --- uh,” Dean halts, because _Castiel is awake_ and standing in the doorway of his kitchen, looking sleep-ruffled but dressed in yesterday’s shirt. “Morning sunshine,” Dean finishes, because apparently he has no control over his goddamn mouth anymore. 

“It's very early,” Castiel says, his voice gravel rich and _fuck_ , that would solve the mystery of why Dean lost his goddamn mind and invited him back here yesterday. His voice sounds like the personification of a morning after and it is so, so, so hot.

“Coffee,” Dean says, gesturing at the machine. “Charlie. I gotta go. I'm coming in later.”

“Dude, your day off.”

“Screw my day off, I'll talk to you when I'm in. Give me a few hours,” Dean says, before hanging up and turning to take in _Castiel_ , again. He’s goddamn beautiful, which is frustrating and terrible and not helpful. 

And he doesn’t like Dean’s food. _Everyone_ likes Dean’s food. He’s taking it a personal insult that this sexy as hell, smart mouthed blogger thinks Dean’s food sucks. Not only does he think it _sucks_ , but he thinks he can read Dean’s darkest secrets from the way he garnishes his goddamn garlic bread, and he’s not even wrong. Not completely.

“You have bad work life boundaries,” Castiel comments, dry and _hot_ as Dean heads for the coffee machine. “What do you do?”

Dean’s pretty sure the only thing that will make this _more_ awkward is Castiel knowing the chef he ripped into, publicly, is also the guy he fucked last night.

“Business,” Dean blurts out, “Corporate uh, stuff. Insurance and... business.”

Dean is a fucking moron. 

“Business,” Castiel repeats, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Yep,” Dean says, filling another mug of coffee and setting it on the table. Cas is still hovering by the doorway and Dean has no freaking idea what to do with that, except that it’s making him feel even more antsy about this whole situation. “You can sit, Cas.”

And apparently now he has a goddamn _nickname_.

“Oh,” Castiel - Cas according to the clusterfuck of Dean’s head - says, like he’s genuinely surprised by the offer, which isn’t really a shock. Dean was drunk enough last night that the details are a little hazy, but it’s not insane to think that Cas had assumed this was an exit quietly the next morning kind of deal. In fact, that’s exactly what Dean was _hoping_ for before he made him some damn coffee. Damnit. 

“Uh,” Dean begins, brain utterly blank for a few long seconds, “You want milk, or whatever?”

“Milk, no sugar.” Cas says, “Thank you, Dean.”

“No problemo,” Dean says, because his brain died at least two hours ago, and now he’s just spouting all kinds of crap like a first class asshole. He has no goddamn idea what’s wrong with him.

Cas’ frown intensifies. 

This guy, right here, wrote that the _’flavour of his garlic bread are subdued, almost closeted’_ a couple of hours before they slept together. He said that Dean’s mac and cheese burger _‘smacked of a man having a mid life crisis too early’_ and this morning has already derailed so far off the realm of okay that conjuring up something to talk about feels insurmountable. 

They didn’t even really talk last night. Not a great deal. They did names and Cas spoke like smoked forty a day and had those eyes and Dean was loud and made some dumbass jokes over the music. They sat very close to each other in the taxi. Cas made him laugh when he was pulling Dean’s shirt over his head and gave him the best blow job of his goddamn life. Fuck. 

Dean’s just invited him for coffee and has no idea what the hell to say. 

“This is very good coffee,” Castiel says, after a moment, eyes fixed very deliberately on his cup. The silence has stretched on too long already and apparently he’s not the only person in the room who’s fixating on how awkward this is. Dean initiated this. He _invited him to stay for coffee_ like a total fucking jackass. Goddamn.

“Yeah, my brother picked it out.”

“Does he live here?”

“No, he’s just over-bearing and interfering,” Dean says, “Kid thinks anything in my life is in his remit for personal judgement.” 

“Ah, I have one of those brothers,” Cas says, with an almost hint of a smile, and that’s better. They can talk about brothers. That’s better than Dean getting so far into his own head about the fact that Cas is _male_ , and hates his food, and sat in his kitchen, that he stops functioning even more than he already has. “Although his taste in coffee is more questionable, which is ironic considering he runs a cafe.”

“Yeah? Anywhere I’d know?” 

“Trickster Cafe?”

“No kidding?” Dean exhales, “That place is the _shit_. Your brother’s pie is a goddamn revelation.” 

“I’ll let him know,” Cas says, finger tracing round the top of his mug, his shoulders beginning to relax. “Is your brother older or younger?”

“Younger,” Dean throws back, “He’s the picture of the floppy haired giant stuck on the fridge.”

“He graduated from Stanford?”

“Yep. Kid’s a genius. He’s still studying, course. For the bar.”

“Is this your father?”

“Ah, no,” Dean says, glancing at the photo, and why the hell did he draw attention to that whole shit show? “Our Dad couldn’t make it. That’s our... uncle.”

“You look very proud,” Cas says, “And he clearly has excellent taste in caffeination.” 

“That’s what forty thousand dollars a year tuition gets you,” Dean throws back, “I’m guessing your brother with the pie is older.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I’m actually the youngest of six.”

“Damn,” Dean says, quirking up an eyebrow, “That’s, uh, a lot of siblings.”

“It translates to a lot of opinions too.” Cas says, “Imagine four brothers and a sister debating the choice of coffee in your apartment, loudly, with very different views. Then substitute coffee with every life decision you’ve ever made and you have a fairly accurate idea of what Christmas Dinner feels like.” 

As much as Dean kind of wants to punch the guy in the face for describing his cheesecake as ‘adequate’, he can’t deny that he’s kind of hilarious, in a snarky, dry kind of way. Also, he’s fucking _hot_ and, well, what does he do with that?

“So, hey, you want to stay for breakfast?”

Not _that_ , Jesus fuck.

“Breakfast?” Cas says, eyes alarmingly and disarmingly blue as he looks at him.

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice a higher pitch than it should be, because _what the fuck is he doing?_. Except, damnit, maybe he _is_ a crappy chef right now, but no one trash talks his restaurant and gets away with it. Especially not freaking adorable, sarcastic food bloggers who he knows, from drunken experience, can do amazing things with their tongue. Damnit. “No strings attached breakfast, I’ve just… got a lot of crap in.”

Well, that isn’t a lie. 

“Okay,” Cas says, gaze still drilling into his side, “What ‘crap’ do you have in?”

“Uh, I don’t actually know. My brother bought most of it.”

“Your brother does all your grocery shopping? That seems unusual for an adult male,” Cas says, and apparently he’s just as smart-alecky in real life, too, which is just peachy.

“So you just say exactly what’s in your head, huh?” Dean asks, standing up to open his fridge.

“Oh. Was that rude? I don’t know the etiquette for post-cotial breakfast,” Cas says, deadpan enough that Dean actually _laughs_ , which is ridiculous. This whole situation is ridiculous. He doesn’t… okay. _Maybe_ Dean sometimes, occasionally, sleeps with dudes, but he sure as fuck doesn’t _invite them for breakfast_ and chat with them about their families over coffee. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, “It’s cute, actually.”

And now he’s practically _flirting_.

“Interesting,” Cas says, tilting his head at him.

“Anyway, uh, Sam doesn’t usually buy my groceries. He’s riding my ass about, uh, eating less take out,” Dean says, turning back to his fridge and remembering the whole part where he hasn’t cooked anything _decent_ for months, which is a flaw in the plan of proving that he can cook to Cas. Not that Cas _knows_ that Dean’s the person who runs the kitchen that dished up his overcompensating burger and subdued garlic bread, so it’s all fucking pointless, but now he’s suggested _breakfast_ he kind of has to commit to it. 

He has no goddamn idea what to cook. He can’t even cook a freaking breakfast. The idea that Dean is an ‘executive chef’ at his own restaurant is a complete joke. 

“A successful endeavour, if the leftover Chinese food on the top shelf is anything to go by,” Cas says, draining the last of his coffee.

“What’s your favourite breakfast?”

“My mother’s three cheese omelette,” Cas responds, his eyebrows raising as Dean starts taking stuff out the fridge. “Dean, you really don’t need to go through any effort. Toast is fine.”

“Think of it as a thank you for the stellar orgasm,” Dean bats back, pulling out a bowl and a couple of pans. He doesn’t have three kinds of cheese, but he does have feta and courgette, which is a good combination for a frittata- style omelette. It won’t win him any michelin stars, but as a breakfast it should be okay. “You want more coffee?”

“I can put another pot on,” Cas says, standing up and watching as Dean cracks eggs into a bowl, “You can _cook_.”

“You get that from cracking eggs?”

“Yes,” Cas says, settling too close behind him and _watching_ as he adds salt to his eggs and grabs a whisk, “You don’t have the kitchen of a man who cooks.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, because he’s had this from Sam before, but it’s a little different hearing it from a guy who has both fucked him _and_ hypothesised that he’s a closet case with an identity crisis on the internet. It’s a little disarming, actually, with him standing close enough that Dean can feel his body heat and _looking_ close enough to see some of this crap. “I - work is busy. You know how it is. Don’t get much time.”

“Yes,” Cas says, very evenly, “I’ve heard _’corporate business’_ is time consuming.”

Oh, this guy is a goddamn riot.

“Right,” Dean says, as Cas leans hyper-close to fill his mug with more coffee. Dean gets a sudden re-visual of last night and the muscles Cas has under that shirt. Fuck. “Point is, I figured having a cheaper apartment was worth the crappy kitchen. What do _you_ do, anyway?” Dean asks, trying to come across like he isn’t already painfully aware. 

“Hmm. I help at Gabriel’s cafe, mostly. Not cooking,” Cas says, watching him carefully, “I am a terrible cook. I can, however, draw genitalia on latte foam, which is highly transferable skill.” He really, really, doesn’t meant to laugh again, but his delivery is just… too goddamn good. “And I write things.”

“Things?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, without further elaboration, “Is it just you and Sam?”

“Yep, just us,” Dean says, “And he can’t cook for crap, either.”

“You don’t talk like someone who works in business, either,” Cas says, taking a seat as Dean puts the omelettes on.

“You mean I don’t talk like I swallowed a goddamn dictionary, like you do?” Dean throws back, which wins him an amused looking frown than somehow leads to them having an actual, getting-to-know-you talk while Dean has one eye on the omelettes and the other on the dude in his kitchen that already knows way too much about him for his strict comfort. 

“Here,” Dean says, plating up two decent look omelettes after he’s learned that Cas is a disillusioned, ivy-league college educated, ex-tax accountant who quit to help Gabriel set up his business and to follow his dream of being a journalist which is going ‘completely terribly’. Dean’s had another one and a half cups of coffee - disappeared to the bathroom to take a couple of tylenol for his head - and the realisation that this is the first time in about six months that he’s actually cooked something that doesn’t immediately want to throw away. 

“Dean,” Cas says, through a mouthful of omelette, “This is _delicious._ ”

Given Dean hasn’t actually allowed himself to act interested in a dude while sober for years he’d forgotten how freaking _flustered_ he can get. Now he’s flushing so hard he can’t concentrate on eating his food, so has no idea whether that’s true or not. The process of cooking _felt_ better than it is has for a long time, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the guy isn’t just being polite because last night they both got their rocks off in Dean’s bed.

He probably wasn’t going to get all food critic-y over breakfast after a one night stand. That’s just bad freaking manners. 

“Thanks,” Dean says, looking down at his own omelette and trying to work out how in the ever loving fuck he wound up _here_ this morning. Cas - Castiel - is funny, whip smart and hot as hell, which is bad news for Dean’s everything. He likes Dean’s omelette, but not his restaurant, and is too damn perceptive for his own good.

It does taste good. Not the best thing he’s ever cooked, but good. Solid. The best thing he’s cooked in months.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Cas says, after, when he’s standing up to _leave_ , like the guy meant to right after he woke up and before Dean started losing his mind and acting like a crazy person. “And the ‘stellar orgasm’,” Cas says, with full on fucking _air quotes_ , “Both were excellent.” 

“No problem,” Dean says, standing up awkwardly, because what do you even _do_ when you’ve made a full on cooked breakfast for the one night stand you never intended to have an actual conversation with? Shake hands? Hug? “I, uh, had a good time.”

“It’s strange,” Cas says, tilting his head at him, “I assumed that you were an emotionally repressed, closeted asshole last night. An incredible attractive asshole, but… I wasn’t expecting you to be so endearing.”

Awesome. Fucking awesome.

“Yeah,” Dean says, dying inside a little, because, fuck. Fuck. “Well, second impressions are important,” Dean says, before it registers that he’s actually _quoting_ the guy’s goddamn blog and his policy of attending each restaurant three times.

Dean needs a goddamn brain transplant. 

Cas tilts his head at him, smiles, leans forward and _kisses his fucking cheek_ before he leaves.

It’s not until Dean’s showered the whole disaster off him (and ignored the large number of text messages he has from Charlie, because he is never telling her about this, ever) that he finds that Cas left him his telephone number. He throws the damn thing away, immediately, because no goddamn way is Dean getting into this. He doesn’t keep guy’s phone numbers any more than he invites guys to stay for goddamn breakfast, and he especially doesn’t do that for guys who said his food was _trying too hard_ all over his lame ass food blog.

Except, then Dean accidentally bulk cooks his way through most of the crap in his fridge, even though he's hungover and crabby, and it isn’t till he’s sat down and started scribbling down the exact combination of everything to get that smoky, eggplant sauce he made for Sam’s revision fuel that he realises the one factor in all of this that has changed is _Cas_.

Dean pulls his number back out of the bin and tacks in on the fridge, just in case. 


	2. Chapter 2

Turning up at his restaurant on his day off with a tupperware box of his middle-eastern inspired eggplant sauce is mistake, but probably not as big of a mistake as sleeping with a goddamn food critic, or inviting him for breakfast, so he’s fresh out of fucks to give at this point of his day.

It’s a little before twelve, so it’s still ahead of the lunch rush and quiet enough that he feels like he can justifiably harass Charlie without it being detrimental to the running of his front of house, even though he’s not entirely sure he actually wants to see her. Not because Charlie isn’t awesome and way more best-friend than employee by this point, but because --

Well. None of that crap he spouted this morning was supposed to be talked about. At all. 

Charlie is going to have _questions_ and Dean doesn’t have a damn thing to tell her.

“Dick move, sir,” Charlie says, after he’s come through the customer entrance of the restaurant and hovered around for long enough to catch her eye and gesture that she should meet him outside. “You didn’t call, you didn’t text. What happened with dreamboat?” 

“Drop the drama, Bradbury,” Dean throws back, “I need you to taste this and sneak me an order of garlic bread out here, stat, and don’t let the kitchen know I’m here.”

“And _I’m_ being dramatic.”

“I’m avoiding Marv. Shut up,” Dean says, casting another glance towards the doorway. He probably _does_ need to invest some time in actually eating at the restaurant, because he hasn’t done that for a while and apparently his food sucks now, but right now Marv is number one on the list of people he’d like to punch in the face and this morning is already not going well. If he has Marv riding his ass about answering emails quicker, he’s gonna do something stupid. 

More stupid. 

“Sure,” Charlie says, “You want me to rustle you up a mac and cheese burger and a cheesecake too? I thought this guy was a ‘millennial asshat’ and you didn’t care about his opinion?” 

“You _follow_ his damn blog,” Dean grumbles, “And spare me the poetics about goddamn _cool_ he is, because that is not something I want to hear right now.”

“Five minutes on the garlic bread, Winchester, but we’re not done with this conversation topic.”

“You get me pita bread for the sauce, I might throw in a tip.” Dean says, squaring his shoulders up against the whole onslaught of _crap_ that is today, and situating himself in the doorway so that anyone looking out the windows won’t see he’s here. Hiding from his own employees wasn’t what he saw happening when he opened the restaurant, but whatever.

“Fifteen percent of nothing is still nothing,” Charlie says, “But roger that.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, tucking himself away in the corner of the doorway as he reads over the email from Marv for the third time this morning. There’s no goddamn way he’s gonna cut the wage of his wait staff, because he pays them that for a _reason_ , but he’s not sure that firing someone is any better.

Charlie is back with a plate of garlic bread and some pita bread before he has a chance to get any further with it. They must look weird as fuck, huddled up in the doorway with two dishes of bread, but to hell with it. 

“Hey Dean,” Charlie says, as Dean squints at his garlic bread for a few moments before taking a bite, trying to dissect what part of the whole thing might come across as _subdued, almost closeted_ , “I love you.”

“I know,” Dean says, glaring at the damn garlic bread, because… Okay, it’s not the _best_ garlic bread he’s ever eaten, but it’s goddamn garlic bread. Even _Sam_ can cook garlic bread and, anyway, how can garlic bread be _subdued_? It’s bread and garlic and butter. “What if Cas is right?” 

“About you being closeted?”

“About my _garlic bread_ being closeted,” Dean grates, stomach turning to lead without his permission, “Leave me out of this.”

“So, I get that you’re having a tough morning, but I feel like you might be overreacting about the garlic bread,” Charlie says, gently, “What happened with, uh, _Cas_ , this morning?”

“Nothing,” Dean lies because, no fucking way is he getting into the part where any trace of sanity he’s ever had evaporated into _mush_ this morning. It’s embarrassing with _him_ knowing it happened, without giving Charlie any more ammunition. “He got up and left.”

“Huh,” Charlie says.

“Try this,” Dean says, taking the lid off the tupperware and shoving it in direction. He knows the sauce is fucking _awesome_ , but his judgement hasn’t exactly been on good form today. Charlie’s a better taste-tester than Sam (although he’ll probably collect his little brother’s opinion, too) because Sam would be proud of him for cooking boxed mac and cheese, so she’s been his guinea pig a lot over the years. “You gotta imagine it’s hot, but it should still be okay.”

“Gotcha,” Charlie says, tearing off a piece of pita bread and dipping it into the sauce. Dean watches her as intently as Cas had watched him cook that damn omelette this morning, feeling very aware that he doesn’t know whether he wants to be wrong or not about it being good. “ _That_ is delicious,” Charlie says, dipping more pita bread into it, “The only way it could taste better if it was licked of some hot chick’s navel.” 

“I know,” Dean says, two parts miserable because, _damnit_ , his food muse just has to be Cas? Really? _That’s_ how this has to work? “I’m thinking we ditch the falafel, go for like… eggplant three ways veggie option. Maybe.” 

“Dude, I’d eat that. All day,” Charlie says, going in for a little more of the sauce, “Even without red meat.” That should be good news, but it doesn’t feel like it right now, because this leads him directly to a dilemma he sure as shit didn’t sign up for when he gave Cas a gummy smile over his beer bottle last night. “Dean,” Charlie says, nudging him with her arm, “Kudos on the coming out.”

“That is _not_ what happened today,” Dean says, “I don’t - it’s barely even a thing. I don’t… uh.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, “Look, in, out, shake it all about and do the hokey pokey, whatever, it’s cool. I didn’t mean to put words in your mouth. This is _your_ thing, dude. Your parameters, your life, your everything.”

“I don’t -- I don’t _date_ men,” Dean says, through half gritted teeth, “I just sleep with em’, sometimes, but it… it isn’t _supposed_ to happen, I was just drunk.”

Charlie rips off another piece of pita bread and dips it in the sauce as she digests his words, which he already regrets. It sounds too much like he’s calling a _no homo_ on the whole damn thing, which isn’t really what he means, and especially not to Charlie. It feels disingenuous for him to be backtracking when Charlie has already dealt with this kind of crap herself, but it’s… the last time he picked up a guy from a bar was nine months ago. It’s not a _thing_ , thing, as much as a momentary lapse of judgement. He made his decision about all this stuff a long time ago. He’s not -- he understands the labels and the baggage and the consequences and he said _no thanks_.

Now he’s stewing in discomfort and feeling a lot like he needs to leave the goddamn country, immediately, so that he doesn’t have to continue talking about this.

“I just want you to be as happy as this sauce makes me,” Charlie says, “ _But_ , can we talk about this? Maybe when I’m not on shift and you’re not hiding from Marv.”

“I,” Dean begins, his windpipe closing up, “I gotta drop some food off at Sam’s, but we could do that coffee after your shift.”

Charlie actually _hugs_ him, which makes him feel weirdly like breaking down in tears (not that he’s going to do that, at all, ever and especially not about _this_ ). She insists on keeping the rest of her sauce for lunch, and Dean takes the final slice of garlic bread with him.

He winds up sat in the front seat of the impala eating it, very slowly, with Led Zeppelin playing in the background. 

Closeted, his ass.

*

Jess is the one who answers the door when Dean shows up with a week’s worth of food in tupperware, which for some reason he wasn’t expecting. His little brother _lives_ with Jess, but he’s having the kind of morning where that just didn’t occur to him.

It also kind of sucks, because he’d really wanted to talk to Sam about the whole _male one night stand stayed for breakfast thing_ because Sam is the only one he can physically talk to about this without his throat closing up (and that is at a serious push), and he can’t if Jess is here. He actually has no idea if Sam has shared that little tidbit with Jessica Moore, girlfriend of two years and the reason why his little brother moved out of their shared apartment, but he really hopes not, and he is not going to get into with her there.

He likes Jess, he really does, he just misses the monopoly he used to have on Sam's time (after his law degree and the rest of it, obviously). It’s the familiar dilemma where he _wants_ these things for Sam, he’s just not sure he likes the consequences that fall back on him. 

“Oh - you come bearing gifts!” Jess says, sweeping a shock of blonde hair behind her ear as she beckons him in, “Good. I've been trying to talk Sam into taking a break for an hour. Hey, Sam --- Dean's here, and he's been cooking!”

Sam appears with ink smudged across his face and a hoodie he's had since he was a teenager a few moments later. Clearly, Jess is right about his need to take a goddamn break, because even the _bar exam_ shouldn't be giving Dean flashbacks to when Sam was studying for the SATs in Bobby's kitchen, frantic and inconsolable, as Dean tried to goad him into taking a break for grilled cheese.

“The groceries helped?” Sam asks, heading to the coffee pot with a barely there smile.

Dean's not entirely sure that what actually _helped_ wasn't the blue eyed, snarky food critic (whose blog Dean wound up reading at various points this morning; it's infuriatingly smart and honest and Dean only half managed to convince himself that he hated it), but Sam must have spent an hour organising his fridge, insisted he purchased food at the farmer’s market and finished the job at the grocery store. If Sam hadn't done that, he wouldn't have been able to cook, so - okay - maybe his new cooking inspiration can be ascribed to his annoying kid brother, instead. That is significantly less inconvenient.

Anyway, he can’t disappoint Sam when he looks at him with those pleased, proud eyes. 

“Yeah, Sammy, the groceries helped.” 

“So you have an autumn menu?”

“I have the beginning of a concept of an idea for two dishes on the freaking autumn menu,” Dean says, as Sam pours him a coffee and pushes it in his direction, “But -- the proof is in the eating. You had lunch?”

He hasn't, obviously, so Sam microwaves three portions of the Moroccan style (ish) food with enough rabbit food to keep Sam happy, even though Dean makes a compelling argument that the whole point was Dean _wasn’t_ cooking for himself. He’s too hungry to argue much, because his shared (slightly gay) breakfast was a long time ago. The garlic bread just made him hungrier.

It’s stupidly delicious. He sort of hates himself for it. Sam and Jess definitely _don’t_ hate him for it and make all the appropriate noises of awe and encouragement.

In the end, he doesn’t mention a damn thing about the review, Cas, or his self pity and settles on inviting them both to the restaurant at some point next week, because it’s been a while, and that way he has a real excuse to order the mac and cheese burger and have a whole meal time to determine whether or not he’s overcompensating.

Awesome. 

*

He’s late for coffee with Charlie because he got distracted buying _more_ food, because he cooked all the crap in his kitchen for Sam and doesn’t fancy yesterday’s take out all that much. If he’s _cooking_ again, he might as well actually reap the rewards. And eat the rewards. 

“So…” Charlie says, a glint her eye that makes Dean feel exceptionally nervous, “Castiel just left this morning?”

“Yep,” Dean says, “I’m telling you, Charlie. I freaked over nothing. Got a cursory goodbye and that was that.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, looking at him with an amused smirk that spells bad news, “He reviewed the breakfast you made him.”

God fucking damnit. No, no, no. _That_ has not happened. That is not a thing.

“Please tell me you're punking me, Charlie, please.”

“Sorry, Dean,” Charlie says, twisting her phone round to face him, Cas’ dumbass blog all over her phone screen which he recognises instantly, because of the number of times he reread it before heading to Charlie to get her to try his new sauce. “He's like, a life bogger too, I suppose.”

Of fucking _course_ he’s a goddamn life blogger.

The post is entitled ‘my second one night stand’ and at some point Cas took a picture of the fucking food. It must have been when Dean snuck out to take some painkillers for the pounding headache he was pretending he didn’t have for no reason, because the guy was probably feeling equally as hungover. 

“The good news is - he rated you pretty highly. And your food, too.”

Dean sends her a glare and takes her phone.

The annoying fucking thing is that Cas is _funny_. The whole thing is self deprecating and witty. He's nice about Dean's food and about Dean, generally. he doesn't mention him by name and he can't even bring himself to be that annoyed about it. There’s a few whole sentence about how hot Cas reportedly thinks he is (which is _irrelevant_ , damnit, because he doesn’t give a damn about guys being attracted to him), but he doesn't say anything that gives away his identity. He writes that they had a ‘good night’ without any details that would mean he’d need to move to Canada. The post has him fake postulating a ‘morning after breakfast’ column before being shot down by his brother, who assures him that the chances of anyone cooking him an omelette after a casual fuck ever again are pretty limited. Particularly one that’s write-home-about, good. 

He ends with a ‘if you happen to be reading this, D, call me. I could go for another morning after’ that's compelling and suggestive enough that he nearly calls him right then, except that he doesn’t do that, and he really feels like he should be pissed about Cas for writing the damn blog, both times, in the first place.

At _least_ Cas said nice things about his omelette. He said that it had ‘growing charm’ and ‘pleasing warmth in more than just temperature’ which is a damn site better than ‘the idea of the burger is trying very hard to remain relevant’.

“I wanted to prove I could cook,” Dean says, pushing the phone back in Charlie’s direction with a sour look.

“Mazel tov, he thinks you can cook,” Charlie says, leaning on her elbows and freaking beaming at him, “So, are you going to see him again?”

“Well, I’m going to fucking have to,” Dean grumbles.

“Because he’s coming in to review the restaurant twice more?”

“No,” Dean says, because he hadn’t even _thought_ about that… And that is a whole massive great big fucking problem. “Because it turns out he’s my goddamn _food muse_ and if I don’t come up with a freakin’ autumn menu in the next three weeks Marv is gonna start hounding me.” 

“Your food… muse?”

“Shut up,” Dean says, grimacing into his coffee. 

“Dean,” Charlie says, “Uh, didn’t you say that you… what, was it? Don’t date guys.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Dean says, vehemently, “It’s not about that. It’s not _romantic_ , I don’t -- I don’t do that, I just.”

“Your… platonic food muse,” Charlie repeats, looking a lot like she’s trying not to smile at him.

“ _Yes,_ ,” Dean says, emphatically, “That. Charlie. I haven’t been inspired to cook something that wasn’t warmed up crap in three months. I need to catch a goddamn break. If I have to _call Cas_ to do that then I’m just gonna have to deal with it.”

“Well, okay,” Charlie says, “Keep me updated. But… So, is there any reason you don't - date guys, if you're attracted to them. I mean, you _are_ attracted to uh, Cas, yes? And that's happened before?”

“Charlie, I'm not some kind of skittish freaking animal,” Dean says, even though that's not even a little bit true. He’s one badly worded question away from calling into work dead. “That's just _sex_.”

“And that’s different?” Charlie asks, watching him over her coffee. 

“ _Yeah_ , it’s different,” Dean say, “I don’t -- don’t do date stuff. Dinner and a movie, or _coffee_ or, whatever.”

“Or _breakfast_?”

“That was - I _panicked_ ,” Dean counters, well aware that he’s too flustered for any of this to come across as believable, but too far gone to do anything about it. “I’m not gay.”

“No one’s saying that.”

“Good,” Dean says, shoulders tense, “I.. there’s all this baggage that comes with _that_ and I don’t want it.”

“Okay, that I get,” Charlie says, picking up her spoon to stir another sugar into her coffee, “And I’m not going to patronise you by saying any of this crap is easy, but… is there really _less_ baggage from setting yourself all these rules about what you can and can’t do?”

“They’re not _rules_ , this is just… how it is.”

“But what if you meet some guy you want to cook breakfast for?” Charlie asks, all wide imploring eyes and way too much heart. Dean has absolutely no idea how he struck gold with Charlie Bradbury, because she is _badass_ , funny and not ashamed to call him out on his bullshit. Normally, the latter is more of a positive trait than it feels like right now.

“That’s not gonna happen.” Dean says, jaw clenched.

“That’s _never_ happened?”

“No,” Dean lies, tightens his grip on his coffee, forces himself to regroup, “We gotta talk garlic bread, Bradbury.” 

*

Despite the fact that he felt _good_ about all this crap while he was wondering round the grocery store with a whole host of ideas he wanted to get stuck into, now he’s facing down his fridge he feels totally flat.

He has the chef equivalent of not being able to get it up, whatever that is.

Dean shuts the fridge with a decisive click and finds he’s got another three emails from Marv about crap that he cares so little about that it’s difficult to actually finish reading the damn thing, and an email chasing up his response about the wait staff situation. Although he’s been feeling more alive for the past couple of hours, the threat of a resurgence in hangover means he doesn’t have the luxury of beer before dealing with any of Marv’s crap, which is usually how he gets through it. He emails back okay-ing the new menus Marv wants to print for absolutely no goddamn reason and asking for a rain check on the wait staff wage bill, before slamming his laptop shut to resume his staring competition with his fridge.

He does not win.

Sam texts him a lot of emojis that he _thinks_ are probably about some of the other food he left him, because he can think of no other acceptable reason why _Sam_ would send him the fucking eggplant emoji half way through the evening.

Dean heats up his leftover take out and eats it in front of one of the douchey cooking shows where a stick thin chick who's probably never eaten a carb in her life gives tips on rolling pasta. It taste twice as crappy on day two and leaves him feeling overfull, dissatisfied and a little bit miserable. 

He switches the TV to some reality TV show.

He turns it off thirty minutes later having no idea what’s going on with the plot because his head has started pounding again. He is, apparently, way too goddamn old to drink heavily and not suffer the consequences the next day.

At the point where he’s considering surrendering on the whole freaking day and going to bed, he finds himself back on Cas’ dumbass blog, trawling through blog post after blog post about whatever. He wrote a fucking haiku about avocado on toast. He reviewed Gabriel’s cafe in a post entitled ‘bribery works’. He said that Dean’s omelette was ‘the kind of satisfaction that’s multiplied by the memory of the satisfaction’ and Dean’s finding it hard pressed not to read things into it about the freaking awesome sex they had that predated breakfast.

And then he’s cooked a fucking perfect chocolate souffle that he eats the second it’s cool enough not to burn on the way down his throat. It’s smooth and dark and _delicious_ and he almost cooks another the second he’s set down his spoon.

Instead, he plugs Cas’ goddamn number into his phone and spends the next ten minutes overthinking himself into the obvious conclusion: he doesn’t have a choice about this. It doesn’t _matter_ that he doesn’t date men, or that Cas is due to review his restaurant twice more, or that Dean would usually play it at least slightly cool and not call or text for another couple of days, because he has no choice. 

He needs to cook.

(And from Cas’ lengthy, sprawling sentences about how attractive he thinks Dean he is and his parting message about Dean calling him, Dean kind of has the advantage of knowing Cas is into it, which curbs some of his anxiousness). 

_Hey Cas, it’s Dean._ Dean begins to type out, thumbs pausing on the keys as his heart rate picks up without his permission. He has absolutely no idea how people do this all the damn time, or why they put themselves through it. He feels relatively sure for a full fives minutes of convincing himself to breathe, slowly, that he’s about to become reacquainted with his leftover take out and his souffle. Still, he needs to cook. He needs to cook. This is just… pragmatic. _Had a good time last night/this morning. You wanna do something again?_

Dean hits ‘send’ before he has to chance to talk himself out of it and feels his stomach turn over uncomfortably. 

Cas responds thirty minutes later asking if he’s free for coffee the next day.

Technically, he’s working tomorrow, but he’s not actually _needed_ for prep when he’s running the pass. He tends to get there at the same time as the line cooks because he likes to oversee everything and for his staff to know that he’s not above chipping in (or, in Sam’s words, because he’s a ‘control freak’ with ‘boundary issues’), but he _could_ take an hour or so before service started for coffee.

He’s never done it before but it is, technically, an option. 

Dean texts back a suggestion of a time and a place before his stomach turns over again and, yeah, the souffle on top of the take out on top of the hangover was _not_ a good idea. 

He spends the rest of the evening throwing up and trying not to think about the fact that ‘coffee’ was one of the ‘date things’ he told Charlie, in absolute terms, that he did not engage in less than five hours previously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for such a wonderful response to my first chapter guys! Hopefully you'll enjoy the rest too :) 
> 
> I have plans for much miscommunication, Dean flailing about and food blogging.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not a date.

This is a _business_ strategy, because the only food he’s cooked recently that hasn’t tasted like ass has been after direct contact with Castiel, and because Dean’s top life priority is his _business_ (after Sam, obviously). That might be because he more or less has no life outside of his damn restaurant, but that’s a separate issue and doesn’t come into play when defining this… thing.

This _not-date_. This... coffee event. With someone he happenes to have slept with. Who kissed him on the cheek on his way out of his flat yesterday. His _platonic food muse_ , who wrote a lot of not-platonic things on his blog about his omelette and his everything. 

Dean’s hand slips on his knife, slicing through the flesh of his thumb.

“Sonuva -” Dean curses, stepping back from his work station and holding his hand in the air. He’s had worse but, dammit, Dean knows his way round a damn knife. He can chop and slice and mince from muscle memory and he doesn’t do dumb crap like nearly take his fucking thumb off because he’s distracted. 

By a _guy_. 

Fuck. 

“You okay, amigo?” Garth asks, and it is _way_ too early to be dealing with Garth, but that’s his own damn fault. Before he opened the restaurant, he always figured the first thing he’d do when he ran his own joint was delegate the tedious side of kitchen prep: getting up the ass crack of dawn to pick up and fillet the fish order, preparing sauces, chopping, marinating and whatever the hell else. He thought the chances of him wanting to participate in the early mornings dragging himself into consciousness to prep burgers were next to none, but somehow he started missing it, until it became part of his routine again. 

“I aint your amigo,” Dean grunts out.

Dean’s always been pretty crap at getting eight hours of sleep a night, anyway, so now the status quo is that most mornings he rocks up to his kitchen about the same time as the line cooks and gets to lose himself in good old fashioned, mundane, kitchen work. The kitchen is quieter. There’s no Marv, for one, and no wait staff barking out orders and no customers to think about. There’s just a knife and an onion and the space of his head and it’s kind of necessary for him to feel _sane_ at this point in the game. 

He really needed some goddamn sanity this morning. 

“Okay, boss,” Garth shrugs, “And hey - maybe you should have some more coffee.”

Coffee is half of his whole fucking problem, but he’s not going to get into that with Garth. 

It’s probably also not what he needs to ease the anxiety sloshing around in his gut, but he swipes the pot after he's patched up his cut, anyway, because Garth doesn’t need to deal with his shit. He likes to think that he's generally an okay boss, but yesterday’s hangover has dissolved into exhaustion, and he probably does need the caffeine. 

He hides in the box office he conceded to need while he drinks his pre-coffee coffee and spends fifteen minutes looking at paperwork to make himself feeling like he’s doing something productive, even if he pretty much gifted all the invoices and all that crap to Marv back when he hired him. The whole _damn point_ of Marv was that he could spend less time trying to add up overheads and more time in the kitchen, and now he’s hiding from his damn kitchen _and_ from Marv. 

Screw it. 

“Garth,” Dean says, leaning out of the office, “I, uh, got a,” Dean stalls, brain churning over the words. “Business meeting. Should be back well before service.”

“Coolio,” Garth says, way too fucking cheerful for someone hand making burger patties at this time in the morning, but that’s part of his grows-on-you-charm. Garth’s a total freekadeek (an official Garthism) and he could probably hack a lot more responsibility if Dean were to throw at him. It’s _fine_ for him to leave the restaurant for an hour, maybe two, to meet Cas. Garth can handle it.

“Phone’s on loud,” Dean says, before he slips out of the kitchen.

He decides, while shrugging out of his chef whites and into his leather jacket, that everything is going to be fine. Cooking on a good day has the same soporific effect as a drag of a cigarette or an ice cold beer in July, and today isn’t totally fucking terrible so far. It’s a damn sight better than yesterday, even if that’s a shockingly low bar, so it’s all gonna be _okay._

He can deal with meeting a guy for coffee, in the name of good food. The restaurant. Being able to pay his staff. Making Sam proud of him.

Dean probably smells like garlic which is fine, because Castiel is his _totally platonic_ food muse and ‘coffee’ isn’t a date, so it doesn’t goddamn matter that he couldn’t find his good jeans and all his shirts that could reasonably considered ‘nice’ are dirty (and he isn’t dwelling on the fact that those thoughts even crossed his mind, either). It doesn't matter that he probably still looks exhausted and he’s grouchy and, by Cas' own estimations, in the middle of a premature midlife crisis. It's all fine, because it's not a date, and it doesn't matter what Cas thinks of him at the end of it. And that’s that. 

Castiel arrives a couple of minutes after Dean’s sat down and ordered himself a large, black coffee and he looks just as frustratingly attractive as he did yesterday and, okay, that means they’re doing this. 

Coffee. 

He has absolutely no reference point as to what to do with this. 

“Are _mornings_ endemic of keeping your company?” Castiel - Cas - asks, a frankly adorable crease in his forehead as he looks at Dean’s coffee. Dean watches him peal off his trench coat and drink in the menu like every single coffee shop doesn’t sell exactly the same thing, uncomfortably transfixed, vaguely wondering if he’s projecting any not-date vibes. How he even _can_ project not-date vibes when getting coffee with someone who fucked him just over twenty four hours ago. Thirty one hours ago, there abouts.“Because it is _very early_.” 

“Uh, sorry,” Dean says, mouth too dry, “Mornings are kind of habitual. You should have said.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “But you’re very attractive and you _cook_.” Dean’s face floods with heat as he glances down at his coffee because, damnit. Goddamnit. “And uncomfortable. I was hoping we could move past that awkwardness stage.” 

Why does he have to get so goddamn flustered around guys like _Cas_? 

“First rule of awkwardness it _not_ to acknowledge it, dude. If no one talks about it, it doesn’t exist.” 

“That is an interesting philosophical concept,” Cas says, tilting his head, "What I mean is - hello Dean, I’m very glad you text me, please don’t judge anything I say before I’ve had a cup of coffee.” 

“Noted,” Dean says, his mouth softening a little. Not date, not date, not date. “Is it gonna make you feel better or worse if I say I’ve already been at work a couple of hours?” 

Cas’ electric blue eyes narrow at him. 

“You have bad work life boundaries.” 

“Uhuh. You mentioned that before, Cas.” 

“And I have met you twice,” Cas says, “This should tell you something.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, gaze caught up in that _blue_ , a smile creeping up on him unawares. Maybe, he can do this. The tight, knotting tension in his chest has loosened a little more now Cas is actually _here_ and barrelling right in with a line that’s probably more sincere than actually _a line_. He’s dorky and snarky and a little too honest, but Dean can work with that. “That you’re pretty damn comfortable sharing your opinion.” 

“I’m relatively sure you indicated that trait was cute yesterday.” 

Not-a-date. 

“Really?” Dean asks, settling into it a little. “Pretty sure I said that before half a cup of coffee, which by your rules means it don’t count.” 

“Hmm,” Cas says, “I’m unsure I extended the rules in both directions, Dean.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “I’m afraid we’ll just have to agree you think I’m cute.” 

“Order yourself a coffee, dork, or else I’m gonna have to discount this whole conversation.” 

“ _And_ a significant portion of yesterday's pre-coffee conversation,” Cas says, standing up, “Coffee is a good idea.” 

Dean winds up watching his progress towards the counter, gaze tracing out his form. That - Cas just flirted with him. They’re having coffee and Cas is _definitely_ flirting with him and _fuck_ , this is a date. 

He’s on a goddamn _date_. 

(And _maybe_ he already knew that.) 

“Did you go into work yesterday?” Cas asks, after he’s put in his coffee order and settled into _looking_ at him with those eyes that are blue enough that Dean’s not entirely sure they’re real, which is the lamest thought he’s ever had in his years of existence. Goddamnit. 

“Uh, briefly,” Dean says, “Dropped of a, um, a report, but - my work sucks right now. Let's talk about something else.” 

“Do you have a suggestion of a topic?” 

“Uh, you,” Dean says, because he can’t think of a damn other thing to say. 

“Me,” Cas says, head slightly tilted, “Any particular area of _me_ you would like to start with?” 

Dean’s brain goes completely and utterly blank. 

He doesn’t date _men_. It’s a little different, because apparently he needs Cas to be able to continue running a restaurant and avoiding tanking his success and winding up bankrupt, but he’s still all hard lines of muscle, stubble and that deep voice. He's hot and at least part of him thinks Dean can't cook. 

“Uh,” Dean says, searching around for _something_ intelligent to say. Or _not_ intelligent, whatever, he’ll take something audible at this point in the game. “Age?” He settles on eventually, which they both know is totally fucking lame. It’s mildly better than that long, drawn out silence that happened right after Dean invited him to stay for coffee yesterday for no goddamn reason, but it’s still painful. 

Dean’s got no idea why or how people subject themselves to this. Dating. Dates.

“Guess,” Cas says, glancing up to smile at the woman who delivers his coffee, before that gaze flicks back to Dean. 

“When d’you quit tax accounting?’ 

“Eighteen months ago.” Cas says, head titled. 

“Thirty one.” 

“Thirty two,” Cas says, eyes blue, sharp, paralysing, "But good guess. And you're - the other side of the thirty crisis.” 

“Just. Twenty nine.” 

“Ah,” Cas says, “You'll be fine. I have every faith in you.” 

“Thanks,” Dean snorts, taking another drink of his coffee. “Hometown?” 

“Pontiac illinois. You're… The Midwest?” 

“Kansas,” Dean throws back, watching him. This is… easy. This is okay. He can do this basic, surface level fact finding mission. “Lawrence.” 

“Music?” 

“Classic rock.” 

“Ah, everyone has their faults.” 

“Take that back,” Dean says, “Metallica is life.” 

“If you say so,” Cas says, mouth poised just so, “How long have you lived here?” 

“Uh, six years.” 

“When Sam went to college?” Cas subs in, which means he was probably paying more attention yesterday than Dean gave him credit for, which figures. This is the guy who _reviewed his goddamn food_ and made wild, accurate ascertains about his sexuality from a freaking side dish. He’d been conveniently forgetting all of that bullcrap. Goddamnit. 

“Yep. Well, year after.” 

“Favourite colour?” 

“You freaking serious?” 

“You started the game of twenty questions,” Cas says, watching him with sharp eyes, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “If you think you can do better -” 

“- damn right I can. How old were you when you lost your virginity?” 

“Nineteen.” 

“Awh, you were a nerd at high school,” Dean grins, running a thumb over the rim of his coffee mug, his usual winning-smirk back on his face. He's fumbling around making a fool of himself less than he figured he’d be this early on, which is good. 

Not that it matters. He doesn’t _care_ , as long as he walks out of this with enough inspiration to make some headway with his autumn menu. That is the only investment he has in any of this. Cooking. 

“And you were?” 

“Not a nerd,” Dean says, smile broadening as Cas sends him a look. “Fifteen.” 

“And when you first slept with a man?” Castiel asks, head tilted and, oh yeah, Castiel can see right through him. Dean is fucking _transparent_ to this guy, even without cooking up all his emotional defaults and baggage onto a plate and serving it to him in the form of the burger. 

“Twenty two,” Dean acknowledges, as Cas’ self-satisfied amusement intensifies. 

“When did you come out?” 

“Uh,” Dean says, head _screaming_ because - holy fuck, what does he say to that? 

What the hell is he doing? 

“Off limits.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says, as if it’s that simple, “Favourite food?” 

“Burgers, no, pie. Both. Pie.” 

“ _Burgers_ ,” Cas says, “Really?” 

“Hey, don’t knock burgers.” 

“A burger is a sandwich with grandeur issues,” Cas says, leaning forward on his elbows to deliver his damning assessment with a flat deadpan. He’s whip smart and _interesting_ and Dean… well, he’s screwed. Well and truly screwed. 

“Burgers are the bedrock of America,” Dean says, “They’re a _staple_. It’s bread and meat and _cheese_ , man, you can’t go ripping into burgers all up on your high horse cause it’s not cuisine, or whatever, burgers are honest to god proper food.” 

“I agree,” Cas says, “I just wanted to see your passionate defence. Beer or wine?” 

“Beer, always. You’re gonna be a wine guy, right?” 

“That depends on the accompaniment,” Cas says, “Wine with a burger is sacrilege.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, “Alcohol or coffee?” 

“Coffee,” Cas says, straight off the bat, “Food or sex?” 

“What food?” 

“Pie,” 

“That depends on the pie,” Dean says, draining the last of his coffee, “Same question.” 

“That depends on the sex.” 

“Best sex you’ve ever had, verses the best meal you’ve ever had.” 

“Best meal,” Cas says, “Although that has nothing to do with the satisfaction involved, it’s just difficult to feel nostalgic about a man who had a very cliche affair with his secretary.”

“Man, I’m - sorry, Cas.” 

“It’s not of important. It was a while ago.” 

“Still,” Dean says, swallowing, “You gotta - that sucks.” 

“Question for you - our hookup the other night, or my brother's pie?” Cas asks, head titled, blue eyes pointed and amused and _damnit_. He’s goddamn funny and snarky and _hot_ and Dean doesn’t have enough defences to deal with that. Wasn’t really expecting it. 

“I,” Dean says, stopping short, “I do not know how to answer that question.”

“Your lack of answer is very telling,” Cas says, clearly amused, “You _really_ like Gabriel’s pie that much?” 

“I just - we were kind of drunk,” Dean says, “Not really a fair fight.” 

“Are you suggesting a rematch?” 

Dean’s brain short circuits. 

And then - thank fuck - his phone rings. 

“I - this is work, I gotta take this. Sorry,” Dean says, wedging his phone under his ear. Garth is panicked and talking too fast about incorrectly portioned chicken and how he’s ruined the whole damn service before Dean has a chance to say anything else. “Garth, Garth. Hey, buddy. It’s - quit freaking on me. If we got a, uh, product size issue, then we deal. You can’t undo it … yeah, okay. Yep. Twenty minutes.” 

“You’re needed,” Cas says, as Dean hangs up. 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “But this - this was, uh…” 

“Do you get lunch breaks at your… corporate business?” Cas asks, the word business articulated clearly enough that Cas is definitely calling bullshit on that whole thing. Dean’s got no idea why the hell Cas is entertaining his vague crappy responses about his job, but then there’s a lot of things that are happening right now that he does not understand. 

Basically, any of the decisions he has made in the past seventy two hours. 

“I - what?” 

“If you have a lunch break tomorrow,” Cas says, very deliberately, “I am working at the cafe and can preserve you the best slice of pie.” 

_He cannot do this again._

One coffee date is okay, slipped past the net, but doing this again is… 

A lot harder to explain away under the name of cooking. 

“Uh, it would be late,” Dean says, “Like, maybe three.” 

_What the fuck is wrong with him?_

“That’s acceptable,” Cas says, “It shouldn’t clash with anyone else’ break.” 

“I - okay,” Dean says, pulling on his leather jacket, swallowing. Cas stands up too. Follows him out of the coffee shop. Stands too close in the doorway. 

“See you tomorrow, Dean,” Cas says, all warm and close, as he leans forwards and fucking _kisses him_. Dean’s too freaking surprised to really react, even though there’s no real reason he _should_ be surprised. This is a _date_ and they’ve already slept together, so it shouldn’t really be unexpected. Cas doesn’t know that Dean’s a closet case with - if these past few days are anything to go by - a whole fuck load of issues. It was a good date. He just _agreed_ to a second date. Of course Cas kissed him.

Then Cas pulls away, smiles and leaves. 

Dean is totally, totally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today on Dean's excellent life choices


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, he actually makes an effort, which is a lot harder to justify internally. He didn't even get a chance to cook properly after yesterday's coffee, because Garth really did do a stellar job at fucking up the chicken, so that excuse is wearing a little thin. Even if it _was_ a chef thing, taking the time to shave properly this morning was probably unnecessary, as was staying up a good few hours later than normal to finally do some laundry. And the texting. That really, really didn't need to happen.

Still, it's fine. All of it is fine.

Everything is absolutely fucking fantastic. 

“Dean,” Charlie says, knocking on the door of his stupid office where he’s hiding _again_ , and surprising him enough that he sloshes his goddamn coffee down his nice jeans.

_Absolutely fucking fantastic._

“Goddammit,” Dean mutters, grabbing the spreadsheets of the last two months profits he printed off as a way of procrastinating from making a decision about the wait staff expense before they get covered in coffee. “Fucking -”

“So, hey,” Charlie says, “Are you still hiding from Marv?”

“Yep.”

“Cause he’s due in in five,” Charlie says, “Coffee? Catch ups? Cas chat?”

“I -” Dean begins, dabbing at his coffee-stained jeans before giving it up because, fuck it, he’s got two instances of putting zero effort under his belt that haven’t seemed to put the guy off yet, so whatever. And he doesn’t care. At all. Not even a little bit.“Can’t.”

“Dude, service doesn’t start for like -”

“ - got plans.”

“ _Plans_?” Charlie says, shutting the door behind her.

“Business meeting.”

“Is that code for…. Cas?”

“No,” Dean says, gruffly, “Maybe.”

“Eee.”

“Charlie, no,” Dean says, stomach plummeting, because _why_ didn’t he just keep his goddamn mouth shut? Charlie doesn’t need this information. She doesn’t need to know a damn thing about his lingering stupidity, because it’s irrelevant. It doesn’t matter. This is all just a _blip_. “I just - I think he _knows_ that he reviewed my restaurant. I just need to… confirm it, and then I’m done. I’m out.” 

“Okay, colour me lost,” Charlie says, leaning on the side of the door, her front of house get up still on from the back end of the lunch service.“ _Why_ would he know?”

“I said I worked in business.” 

“Business,” Charlie repeats, her expression very deliberately straight.

“Right, and he didn’t buy it.”

“Kay,” Charlie says, “He probably thinks you’re in porn.” 

“But he,” Dean says, “Said it all dubious and junk. Like, _corporate business. Uhuh. Wink, wink._ He knows I’m lying.”

“You said _corporate business_? Those actual words.”

“Charlie,”

“Okay, sorry, focused,” Charlie says, “Wow.”

“I - damnit,” Dean says, “I _panicked_. The goddamn point is, he didn’t ask about it.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, “Look, I am _pro_ you catching up with Dreamy McDream face, okay, buuut. If you know someone you _just_ slept with lied about their job, you don’t call them a liar and demand the truth. Maybe this is why with the bad luck with all the ladies, and, uh. Others.”

“But he didn’t mention it yesterday, either.”

“Yesterday?” Charlie asks, her eyebrows shooting upwards and _oh fuck_. One day, soon, Dean’s brain is gonna rejoin the party and start contributing to the shit that comes out of his mouth. Hopefully _before_ he goes to meet Cas in his lunch (ish) break, because if he agrees to another goddamn… outing, he might properly commit to this breakdown he’s having.

Or, premature midlife crisis, as Castiel would say.

“We,” Dean begins, because there’s no getting out of it now, “There was coffee.”

Charlie doesn’t laugh in his face, or give him a hard time for not mentioning as he was expecting her too. Instead, he gets a soft smile that’s six thousand times worse. Charlie is _proud_ of him, which… he doesn’t deserve her being all nice about this, when Dean is fucking up his whole goddamn life. It was all _fine_ and now he’s just throwing grenades all over the shop, and he cannot seem to _stop_.

All he goddamn wanted was to know what to put on his Autumn menu. That’s it. He didn’t sign up for having the crappiest parts of himself semi-publically put on Cas’ stupid blog, and he didn’t sign up for… for _texting_ and this sustained emotional crisis point.

“Dean,” Charlie says, “I really love you.”

“He said there’d be _pie_ ,” Dean mutters helplessly, as Charlie comes over and nudges his shoulder with her own. “I - you don’t turn down _pie_.” 

“I know,” Charlie says, and they stand like that until Dean can hear Marv’s dulcet tones in his goddamn kitchen and Dean does exactly what every successful executive chef does when the douchebag they hired to run the show turns up: get’s the hell out of dodge.

*

Trickster Cafe is a kick ass joint on the right side of hipster, that has vaguely douchey crap on the menu but doesn’t make him feel a hundred years old. He’s come in once or twice with Sam, but he’s pretty damn sure he was never there when Cas was working, because he would have noticed. Even in his work get up and his apron, he’s still dangerously hot and hotter still when his gaze turns from it’s usual blue, intense stare, into _warmth_ (and, okay, Cas is fucking gorgeous enough that he’d have noticed even if he was with Sam and very deliberately _not_ noticing). He smiles. Cas looks honest to God happy to see him and that’s - not the worst. Definitely not a _bad_ thing.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, gravel rich and fucking delicious, and that voice. “I’ll just get Gabriel so I can take my break.”

He comes back with coffee and _pie_ and -

What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? 

“You said you write things,” Dean says, a little after his pie’s gone ( _delicious_ and he enjoyed it way, way too much to have an audience for him devouring it) and the heat of Cas’ eyes on his skin has gone to his head a little. It would be easy, Dean’s pretty sure, to forget that Cas falls very much onto his _don’t go there_ list, just by getting drawn in by his freaking eyeballing. Goddamnit. He needs to… focus. Get his act together. 

Follow through on his plan of finding out if Cas _knows_.

“Yes,” Cas says, “That statement is factually accurate. I did say that.”

It’s a gutsy fucking move bringing it up, but there’s _got to be_ a reason he didn’t drag up the corporate-business crap. They talked enough over coffee yesterday and then there were _texts_ for half the damn night. He had plenty of opportunity. He kind of gets not bothering to call bullcrap over there initial post meet-cute breakfast, but. But. _Maybe_ he already knows, and then one of his current major stressors can be put to bed. 

“You wanna be more vague about that?”

Granted, he’s juggling enough dumb things right now that he’s _still_ gonna be losing his mind, but it would be something. 

“I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you needed as much information as _corporate business_ , I should have been more forthcoming.”

“You had enough coffee today?” Dean says, darkly.

Cas’ eyes spark in amusement and leans forward. Dean catches himself halfway through matching the movement, with the hard edge of the table digging into his stomach as he subconsciously tries to get _closer_. 

“For the large part, I'll write anything that they'll pay me for.”

“So you're a word whore?”

Cas smiles.

“My idyllic view of my burgeoning journalism career was that I'd be writing cutting political exposes, but as it turns out - I suck. Now, I write about food, mostly. Reviews.”

“Reviews, huh?” Dean asks, watching the lines of his shoulders and his razor-sharp gaze for anything that gives away some sign of stress but, nothing. Nada. Either Cas has got the poker face of a world champion, or he just… has no idea.

“A would be food critic,”

“And your Mom's food is your gold standard that everything’s measured against?” Dean says, “The three cheese omelette hall of fame.” 

“Yes, her food was perfect. She was perfect, generally.”

“Was?” 

“She died when I was seven, and to a seven year old their mother is always perfect.”

“I get that,” Dean says, mouth dry. Cas tilts his head at him. “I - my mom died when I was four.”

“Oh, I'm sorry for your loss, Dean.”

“Well- you too. What, uh, what happened?” Dean asks, and screw the fact that he’s practically bent across the sofa for this conversation. Screw it.

“Cancer,” Cas says, “but it was sudden. She was well, and then she was dying. There was none of that fighting stage, although perhaps as the youngest they just sheltered me from it until they couldn't. We don't really discuss is as a family. Your brother must have been very young.”

“Six months, he doesn't remember her at all.”

“You do?”

“Bits,” Dean says, “her apple pie, her cutting the crusts of my sandwiches, her screaming. In the fire, I mean, that's how she died.”

“That's awful, Dean, I'm sorry “

“That's death,” Dean says, “Whatever way you cut it, it still just sucks.”

Castiel leans back and studies him. His gaze is electric, paralysing, freaking hypnotising, and the pie was a fucking benediction and - and calling this whole thing a disaster feels like a stretch. He does not _hate_ this.

“She made you pie.”

“No, actually. Dad burst my bubble on _that_ when I was fourteen and made my first pie crust. Told me that Mom couldn't bake for shit and got her pie from the store, and that I was probably a better cook than she was at that point. He had two bites before he threw the rest in the trash. Didn't ever make another one. Sammy loved it, though. Dumb kid loved anything I'd let him eat with ice cream, so maybe that's why.”

“Did your father cook?” Cas asks, and Dean smiles ruefully at that. “What?” 

“Sorry, just trying imagine my Dad making a homemade meal, ever,” Dean says, smile bitter, too honest for the context, “Wasn’t exactly a _home-maker_ kind of guy. We ate at diners until I was old enough to use a stove. It was - we moved around a lot. Motels. It wasn’t exactly an after school special single Dad success story.”

“So you taught yourself to cook?”

“Pretty much,” Dean shrugs, “Don’t get me wrong, there were some good people around, but mostly - mostly it was just me and Sam.” 

“Where’s your father now?”

“Got no idea.”

“He walked out on you?” 

“Jury’s out on that,” Dean says, “There’s a missing person’s report and five years of radio silence, but. I don’t know. What about, what about you?”

“Ah, well, my father did walk out,” Cas says, “I was a toddler, so I have very little memory of him, and he was distant enough that I didn’t really care. At the time, anyone who wasn’t my mother’s existence seemed extra to my essential needs and distracted from my mother paying attention to me. Big family syndrome. After our mother died, Michael and Lucifer took over our parenting needs.” 

“Damn,” Dean says, “All of you? Was hard enough with just Sam.”

“They were quite laissez faire about it all,” Cas says, evenly, “Although, yes, it was a lot of responsibility for two nineteen year olds to take on. Michael tried to cook, but I wouldn’t eat it. I was awful, Dean, but every single bite tasted like grief and despair, so I refused it.”

“Because it wasn’t your Mom’s?” Cas inclines his head. “You were a kid.”

“And I was _hard work_ ,” Cas says, “Michael got better at cooking. He stopped trying to emulate our mother and became - himself. Different. I remember, very distinctly, believing I was tasting his journey out of despair, even if I was probably just projecting. When I was older, it became a game we used to play with other people’s cooking. I would solemnly declare whatever emotional pitfall they’d fallen into when deciding what to cook, which became the basis of my infernal blog. It was Anna’s idea.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “It’s largely ridiculous, but it is entertaining. At least, enough that I get a semi-regular paycheck, but that’s why I write about food, which I think is how we got onto this. My mother’s cooking. I’m very impressed that you taught yourself to cook, Dean, you should know that you’re very good.”

“I cooked you a freakin’ omelette,” Dean says, the words catching in his throat, “But, uh, I guess I know that. That I can cook. It just, feels like my whole freaking life is in a bit of a rut right now, and it… Don’t enjoy it, right now.” 

“That’s allowed too,” Cas says.

“Just, for the record, I don’t usually… start talking about this crap out of nowhere.”

“You mean you don’t use your childhood trauma as your second date material?” Cas asks, a hint of snark shadowing his words, “I understand, Dean.”

“I don’t mean _second date_ , I mean, you know, ever. At all. Not with my brother, not with my friends, not with some quack therapist. So, uh, if I freak out on you if you bring this up, my bad.”

“I will refrain from beginning our next conversation by asking how you feel about your difficult childhood,” Cas says, finger tracing the outline of his empty coffee cup, the movement half mesmerizing and half annoying as hell. 

“Anyone ever told you you're kind of an asshole?”

“Yes, you. At least twice,” Cas smiles, “Thank you for sharing with me, Dean.” 

“Yeah, no problem. Look, this has been awesome , but - “

“ - You have to get back to work?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, thank you for making time to come and meet me.”

“Thanks for the freaking pie, man.”

“Now I know the emotional context, I am pleased to say that I held back two pieces of pie," Cas says, standing up and tying his apron back around his waist. “You can take it for your next work break.”

“Dude, this is the longest work break I've ever taken. They're gonna freak on me when I get back. No way am I taking another.”

“You have terrible work life boundaries,” Cas says, “I will be back in a moment with pie.”

Dean watches him slip back into the kitchen without blinking and, okay, his _platonic food muse_ line has worn way, way thin.

“Here,” Cas says, stepping back round the counter to hand him a slice of boxed up pie with an almost smile and, God fucking help him, this time Dean's ready for it. Preempts it. Is actually the one who leans forwards and kisses him.

It's a better kiss this time. Longer. He winds up with a hand on his cheek, noses brushing.

“So, uh,” Dean says, face flushed, pulse racing, “Thanks.”

“It's worth noting,” Cas says, very seriously, “That if you were free this evening, that would officially be a third date.”

Dean has _no_ idea how someone who talks like they consider the Dictionary to be a bedtime story can be so goddamn smooth.

“Third date, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “And I'm currently being outranked by _pie_.”

“Look, man, it's nothing personal, it's just freaking awesome pie.”

Cas is standing exceptionally close. Dean can feel the body heat radiating off him and it’s kind of… addictive. Good. And, okay, Dean can do _sex_ with guys (after a few drinks, an internal pep talk and usually a moment of almost crisis in the bathroom before pure hedonism wins out), so… Well. That’s fine. Barely even breaks his internal rules. 

“Come over after work. I won't bring up your childhood.”

Dean snorts.

“I don't - it's usually a pretty late finish, but uh. I can try.”

“Try _very hard_ ,” Cas says, leaning forward to kiss him again, lingering, casual, nice. Dean's never in his whole goddamn nice described a kiss with a dude as _nice_. Nice isn’t heat-of-the-moment, or alcohol fuelled, or so turned-on-I-couldn’t-help-myself. It’s just… _nice_.

Fuck.

*

Service is goddamn crazy and already in full swing by the time Dean gets back to the restaurant .

“How are we doing on the special?” Charlie asks, as she passes him the new tickets, “I got two four tops looking at the menu right now and a couple waiting at the bar-”

“ -Special is a-okay, we gotta another ten portions -”

“ - Gotcha, push the special. Number two of two bacon, one fries, one courgette fries is pregnant, so _well done_ , well done not Dean Winchester you eat your meat wrong well done - capisce?”

“Yep. Got it.”

“And table six is antsy -”

“ -Garth, where am I on one lamb, one special?”

“Two minutes chef.”

“Okay, two minutes, Charlie. I'll push on sides -”

“ - And Dean,” Charlie says, corners of her lips curling up into a smile, “how was it?”

“Garth, you _sure_ it's not gonna be longer on that one lamb one special cause -?”

“ - Sure thing, Cheffo. Two minutes.”

“That was rhetorical, Garth, you start lengthening times on me I'm gonna take it out on your oven glove sock puppets.” 

“You seem chirper,” Charlie says, leaning forward to offer him a bright-eyed smile.

“Trying to run a damn kitchen here, Bradbury,” Dean says with an eye roll, “ _Okay_ , new ticket, folks, I've got two bacon, one well done, one fries, one courgette - how long?”

“Eight on bacon well done.”

“Heard,” Kevin calls back, which means Charlie has an opportunity to quirk her eyebrows at him and work herself up to a question, which he is so, so not ready for. He's saved by Marv emerging from the back office, which is actually convenient for the first time in Dean’s whole freaking life.

“Garth, I want you in the driver's seat, Kevin on Burgers, I need five. Marv - let's talk. Charlie, got a couple?”

“Oh, yep. Anna's on shifts so -”

“ - Awesome,” Dean says, heading for the back entrance and pulling off his dumb chef hat. There’s not room in his office for the three of them and, anyway, he could use the air.

He’s gonna need it.

“Does this mean -?” Marv begins, before they’ve made it outside.

“ - It's not about the damn wait staff,” Dean cuts across, before Marv can start on _that_ again. Charlie's eyebrows shoot up. “I'm gonna take off early today.”

Marv’s very open expression of abject, overblown disapproval can piss off.

“So I'm gonna leave at nine instead of eleven, so shoot me.”

“You've been gone half the day.”

“I took a damn lunch break, at 3pm. I think tomorrow I'm gonna need to cook, at home. Sure I'll be in at some point, but if you could assume I'm not here -”

“Yep. Sure thing, boss.” Charlie says, arms folded, as she shoots a look in Marv’s direction. 

Dean’s not the only person who finds him more irritating than he realised a person had the capacity to be, but he’s necessary. Dean’s dumbass business courses didn’t magically turn him into someone smart and capable of running a full on freaking restaurant. They just didn’t.

“Garth can run the kitchen,” Dean says, “He does it when I’m off, anyway.”

“Which is practically never,” Charlie says, “Head at eight, Dean, it’ll be quiet by then.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, “Awesome.” 

“Dean,” Marv says, “If I could speak with you in the office -”

“Uh, way to jump the queue, Marv,” Charlie says, “That _word_ I need, Dean?” 

“I - fine,” Dean says, because Charlie bugging him about the hot mess that is the Cas situation is marginally better than being pinned down by freaking Marv. “Two minutes, Marv.”

He waits until Marv has sighed very deliberately and headed back inside before facing down Charlie. 

“Charlie, I don't have the time right now to talk about Cas.”

“Why does Marv want to talk to you about _my_ wait staff, Winchester?”

Oh.

Damnit. 

“Charlie, I'm handling it.”

“Handling, what?”

“He - Marv thinks we gotta cut the wait staff budget.”

“He _what?_ ”

“Charlie -”

“Why the fuck are you listening to him?” Charlie asks, her voice heated. Charlie is usually so freaking sweet that he forgets that she’s five foot four of concentrated _sass_ and passion. He forgets that she’s probably lethal and protective as hell over anyone she can help. That she’s actually his employee, as well as his best friend. 

“Because that's why I freaking hired him.”

“You know why this is the only job I didn’t quit after two months? Because I have issues with authority, and for once I actually _like_ my boss. If Marv starts muscling in on my territory-”

“Is that a _threat_?” Dean asks, voice flat, walls going up.

“I am overqualified, Dean, and I am over-awesome and I am here because I care about _you_ , not because I’m passionate about being a freakin’ waitress -”

“ - you’re not a _waitress_ ,” Dean says, “You _run_ half this place.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “With _you_. Not Marv.” 

“Charlie.”

“Don’t _Charlie_ me, Winchester. I am pissed off and I am _not_ being won over by your stupid sad face. You are making a _mistake_ and as your employee, you should, you should stop and think about what you’ve done.”

Then she whirls around and storms back into the restaurant before he can say another word.

Marv tries to corner him on his way back in.

“Don’t even _think_ about talking to me about the fucking budget right now,” Dean snaps, before Marv can speak. 

He eats his second slice of Gabriel’s pie huddled outside the back of his restaurant, alone, because Marv is sulking in his office and Dean might just be sulking, too, and decide to screw the whole damn thing. 

He is not, generally, in the habit of denying himself good sex.

He leaves at quarter to eight.

He’s in such a shitty mood that the whole damn restaurant is pleased to see the back of him, anyway, and he takes a detour on the way home to shower the whole crappy day off him. And to… prepare because, right, third dates. Cas. Cas’ _apartment_. Cas, who he’s allowed to think of in relation to _sex_ , if nothing else.

( _Not_ the conversation about their respective late mothers and their crappy childhoods, but… he can think about the curve of his mouth, and his arms, the bright unreal hue of eyes. _That_ is a-okay). 

Except, then he’s at Cas’ apartment and he says _”you eaten?”_ and he winds up rummaging through Castiel’s cupboards to find something to cook, which was distinctly and definitely not part of ‘excuse number four: sex doesn’t count’ plan.

“Dean,” Cas says, from his sofa, “I told you I don’t cook. I don’t _have_ food.” 

“Not true,” Dean says, leaning against one of Cas’ kitchen cupboards, “You have _baby Zucchini_ and, uh, some mystery frozen something. And mayo.”

“I think the mayonnaise belongs to Gabriel,” Cas says, standing up, “Do you want beer?”

“Always,” Dean says, “And the freaking baby Zucchini?”

“I - I thought they were cute.” Cas says, opening a beer and passing it to him, hovering too-close in the kitchen. 

“You bought vegetables because they were _cute_?”

“In my defence,” Cas says, “You bought me home because I was cute.” 

“Didn’t put you in the goddamn fridge, though,” Dean throws back, “Okay, I can work with this.”

“How?” Cas says, “Dean, I can _order_ food.”

“Your brother’s got pasta, tomatoes, some kind of weird ass herb collection. You can pay him back.” Dean says, opening a few cupboards before finding a chopping board and setting to work. He’s silent for a little while. Very nearly relaxed, which is frankly a goddamn miracle given that he -

He hasn’t slept with a guy, sober, for freaking years. Barely ever. Normally he has the confidence of a six pack of beers and a few measures of whiskey, that rounds off the edges of anxiety and quietens the shit storm in his head. It’s _sex_ which is good and easy and awesome, so by some definitions _this_ should be easier than coffee, or a pie date, but - it’s not a comfortable concept. 

He doesn’t really have a clue what he’s doing.

“I figured your brother would have some better kitchen crap given he owns a cafe.”

“He _bakes_ , it’s an entirely different skill,” Cas says, “How have you achieved something that smells that good from our token attempts at owning groceries?”

“Taste,” Dean says, handing him a spoon, “And tell me I’m awesome.”

“Dean,” Cas says, very seriously, “You are awesome.”

“ _This_ is gonna simmer,” Dean says, “And I’m roasting your cute little veg, you freaking weirdo.”

“Hm, hold the garlic.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, turning down the heat and setting a timer on his phone to put the pasta on. 

“How?”

“Dude, I’ve got a decade of experience of feeding my little kid brother for a week with a box of lucky charms and a ten dollar bill.”

“For the formal record,” Cas says, deadpan absolute, “I would just like to state that I am not the one who brought up your childhood.”

Dean laughs and that somehow turns into them making out in the goddamn kitchen. He winds up pressed against the refrigerator, one of Cas’ hands shucked under his shirt, hips pressed together. It’s hot, catching more heat, one hand curled up in his hair. He is _stone cold sober_. He is completely fucking sober, but Cas is fucking beautiful and whip-smart and sarcastic as hell and, and, and -

Oh _fuck_ , he can’t do this.

He can’t freaking do this.

_He has no idea what he’s doing_.

“Ahem,”

“Gabriel,” Cas says, stumbling backwards, all bruised lips and messy hair. Dean _did_ that. He kissed him, sober, with his… his abs, and his thighs, shoulders. He’s a _guy_. Not even just a little bit, he’s a full on _dude_ and... Dean really shouldn’t be doing this. “Hello.”

He recognises Gabriel from the cafe, even if he doesn’t look a whole lot like Cas.

“Something smells good,” Gabriel says, shit-eating grin plastered all of his face. He’s short, amused and carries himself with the air of someone who knows exactly what he wants, which is interesting. A different brand of the self assurance Cas carries round with him. 

“Dean was just - cooking.”

“Oh,” Gabriel says, “This is the one who cooks.”

“ _Gabriel_.”

“I’m kidding,” Gabriel says, smirking to himself as he steps round them both to get himself a beer from fridge, “There’s only one. Cassie’s love life here is a real greek tragedy.” 

“There’s nothing about my tragic love life that is particularly _greek_ ,” Cas says, “Gabriel, please go away. You’re very annoying and I patently have company.”

“But, little brother, I’m _hungry_ , and I fed your little ken doll here pie.”

“And I stole your pasta,” Dean chimes in, because he needs to say _something_ and watching the big brother routine is actually vaguely comforting. Familiar. He’d definitely pull something like this on Sam. “Hey.”

“Hark - it speaks!”

“Gabriel, shut up,” Cas says, sighing very deeply, sending Dean a baleful look before glaring at his brother. “If you stay, I would like a pay rise and then I would like your absence.”

“Can chuck in a condom free of charge,” Gabriel throws back, “I hear you like my pie, Deano.”

“I - yeah, guilty as charged,” Dean says, “I can chuck on some more pasta.”

“Excellent,” Gabriel says, and launches into a childhood story about Cas sucking his thumb in middle school, that Dean’s fifty percent sure is straight up bullshit. Cas rolls his eyes a great deal and becomes increasingly more snarky as the story progresses and it’s… fuck it, it’s nice. There’s no other word for it. It’s just nice.

Cas insists on taking a picture of the finished scrubbed together pasta dish before they eat (“I told you I _review food_ , Dean, this is an unavoidable side effect”) and Gabriel does actually take off to his ex-girlfriend’s house after they’ve eaten. 

Then they’re alone again, but it’s kind of _fine_ , now. He’s cooked, which helped, and he’s had enough time to grow accustomed to the fact that he’s in a dude’s apartment and he kind of, basically, really wants to get in his goddamn pants. 

(The second beer helps too).

And then it’s lips, hands, Cas’ voice breathy and _incredible_ in his ear and all his made up excuses about cooking and knowing if he _knows_ are drowned and buried and _silenced._

It is better than Gabriel’s pie.

He accidentally stays the night and wakes up in a fully fledged fucking _panic_ where all he wants to do is lock himself somewhere, or call Charlie, or even call freaking _Sam_. In the end, he leaves a note about needing to get to work and barricades himself in his apartment with the rest of his groceries and a valiant attempt at cooking through it.

The resultant autumn stew tastes like he’s a bordering thirties, insecurity-ridden closet case with daddy issues and a newly emerging lying-problem.

He eats it anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all the wonderful responses to this so far :D


	5. Chapter 5

Dean is not _unaware_ that he’s made a massive freaking mess over the past week and a half of his life. At some point, there are going to be consequences and conversations and fallouts, but he doesn’t have the capacity to think about that right now. If he tries to look at all the different ways this could possibly explode in his face, it feels like his lungs are going to turn to cement, so he’s just… rolling with the punches. Going with it. Riding the waves of his total insanity.

He _had_ a fix-it strategy to break it down into manageable bite sized chunks, only then it turned out that a _manageable_ chunk in his current state of perpetual freak-out is the tip of the fucking iceberg. Charlie’s barely speaking to him, he’s avoiding Sam so he doesn’t have to try and explain any of this, he still hasn’t gotten even a fifth of an Autumn menu planned and he’s relatively sure that he Cas are actually goddamn _seeing each other_. 

If Cas was a chick, that’s probably what he’d be calling this, and he’s pretty fucking sure that the rules for the general populace are the same, regardless of gender. Even if the Dean Winchester internal policy just says _no goddamn way_ whenever he tries to work it out. 

There has been… texting. Another pie date at Gabriel’s. Dinner.

He no longer feels like he’s about to have a heart attack when it looks like Cas is gonna kiss him in public.

Baby steps. 

_Bite sized, manageable chunks_. 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice sleep rough, warm, vulnerable. Dean shuts his eyes and does his best not to look at him. _This_ whole thing is an actual game of gay-chicken, and if he looks over at Cas all freaking naked and twisted up in the bed sheets, he’s going to spook, and he’s going to bolt before he’s had a chance to stop and think and the thing about all of this… is that he doesn't actually want to do that, on at least a couple of levels. Granted, they're the levels he generally pretends don't _exist_ , but, still. He doesn't want to pull a disappearing act on _Cas_.“If you’re going to flee the building, I would appreciate you doing it now, before I’ve had the chance to fall back to sleep.”

“I didn’t _flee_ ,” Dean says, without real conviction, “Had to get to work.”

Cas rolls over and looks at him and, yep, there’s all the freaking _naked ass man_ that Dean’s been trying not to think about, even though that’s spectacularly illogical given what he was doing six hours ago. _Logic_ hasn’t exactly featured in this clusterfuck for a while, though, and it’s a little different in the cold light of morning. He’s usually fled way, way before the sun comes up.

Cas half props himself up on his elbow, zero fucks given about his state of sheer nudity, which is kind of wild. Dean reclaimed his boxers halfway through the night after an intense psychological battle about whether he was going to _stay_ in Cas’ apartment for the second time, or move to Canada and change his goddamn name.

Baby steps. 

“Do you need to go to work right now?” Cas asks.

Wednesdays are freakishly busy for a weeknight and Garth’s off sick, which means he’s down one of his best chefs. _Technically_ he’s got cover sorted, but his confidence levels in Gordon are limited at best and it’ll save him more time just _being_ there for kitchen prep rather than triple checking every single damn thing before it gets cooked for service, and again at the pass. He should be there. He really, really should.

He just… doesn’t _want_ to. 

“No,” Dean says, “Not… _right_ now, now. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“Hmm,” Cas says, sitting up and stretching. Dean winds up watching the curve of his spine give way to shoulders, arms - good, solid arms that are more than capable of pinning him to the goddamn bed - then his broad hands. Damnit. “I suppose if _you_ are awake…”

“Cas, go the hell back to sleep,” Dean says, “Just cause _I_ wake up at the ass crack of dawn don’t mean you gotta suffer too. Didn’t mean to stay the night.”

“You got up, plugged your phone in, then got back into my bed and shut your eyes, Dean. Were you expecting a different outcome than unconsciousness?” Cas asks, pulling on a pair of mother-fucking-jeans _without_ locating some damn underwear first. Dean gapes at him because, goddammit, how is anyone supposed to deal with that level of sass paired with that level of _hot_? “That’s not a complaint,” Cas continues, “I wanted you to stay. Do you want coffee?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, slamming his jaw shut, like it’s just a-okay for Cas to be wearing _jeans_ and no underwear, and like that kind of mental image wouldn’t alone be enough to give him some kind of aneurysm. He could really, really use someone to explain the concept of _manageable chunks_ to Cas, so he’d stop blind-sighting him like that. Then again, if they’re explaining things to Cas, that’s probably not the place to start. 

Hot-fucking-damn, though.

And - and he _really_ needs to talk to Charlie about this (not how unreasonably sexy Cas is, but about all of _this_ that's just been happening to him while Dean flails around and tries not to have a breakdown ), because almost every conversation they’ve had about this has made him feel slightly better, which is usually the exact opposite of what normally happens whenever any of this crap comes up in conversation. There’s _generally_ a direct correlation between the length of the conversation and how badly he wants his stomach to start digesting himself just to get away. Charlie is an exception.

“Coffee,” Cas says, setting two mugs down on his bedside table and sitting back down again, “Is this the part where we cuddle?” Cas asks, his heavy deadpan reinstated. 

“You’re a dick,” Dean says, spinning his phone through his hand, watching him.

“You say that like I’m not serious,” Cas says.

"l don't cuddle.”

“Yes,” Cas says, shifting all close into his personal space, “You're very manly and tough. This is purely for my own benefit.”

“What?” Dean asks, as Cas physically rearranges Dean's arm around Cas’ shoulders (not that Dean actually tries to stop him), setting up shop half rested against Dean’s chest and, okay. 

Cuddling. Coffee-in-bed. Fine. _Fine_. Just absolutely _fine_. Absolutely oh-fucking-kay.

Baby steps. Yep. Goddamn baby steps.

“'l require five minutes of morning-after cuddling for both mornings you left, and five minutes for this morning, which is conveniently the exact time you quoted before you have to leave.”

“Morning after cuddling isn't part and parcel with picking someone up at a bar, Cas, you can't count that.”

“I accept your counter point,” Cas says, “ _But,_ you surrendered that clause when you made breakfast and extended the nature of the liaison,” Cas continues, and he’s close and warm enough that Dean can feel the words vibrate through his chest. Maybe this _is_ okay. Cas is talking complete crap, obviously, but his morning-voice is something else and listening to him use it to spout this shit is at least entertaining. 

“You talk a lot,” Dean says, one of his traitorous thumbs smoothing over Cas’ shoulder, mapping out the bone under the skin.

“Sometimes I get paid by the word.”

“You talk a lot of _crap_.” 

“The point still stands,” Cas say, losing the latter half of the word in a yawn. “How do you get up at this time every day?”

“Years of practice,” Dean says, “And caffeine.” 

“Do I need to be jealous?” Cas asks, nodding at Dean’s phone, where he’s got Charlie’s contact details up to display the complete lack of messages he’s had since their kind-of-fight at the restaurant. He didn’t even realised he’d done it, but there it is. Damn, he’s pathetic. 

“Charlie’s - girl-Charlie,”

“I wasn’t aware that was an issue for you,” Cas says. Dean never actually _said_ anything about his sexuality (mostly because 'straight' is the only word he's ever be allowed to be applied to himself, which is a little awkward given the current cuddling situation), but Cas is quick as hell. Dean’s got no goddamn idea what his tell was, but he must have given himself away pretty early on. Cas knew exactly how to frame that follow up virginity question for maximum impact on their coffee date.

He’s uncomfortably pleased about the fact that Cas didn’t read him as only interested in dudes. He’s less pleased that Cas can read him like a fucking book. 

“Uh, no, but she’s got a strict no dicks policy,” Dean says, “Guess she’s pretty much my best friend.” 

“But?”

“But what?”

“ _But_ you’re mournfully looking at your phone,” Cas says, and Dean shifts his arm to tuck Cas under it. There’s no one else here to judge him for it and he ran out of excuses at least two dates ago. Apparently this is _happening_ , so. Fine. Cuddling.

“She’s.... I’m kind of her boss, too, and she’s… pissed at me about a work thing so, nada, radio freaking silence and - I dunno, man, I just forget about the whole awkward employer friendship shit most of the time.”

“How long have you been her employer?”

“As long as I’ve known her,” Dean says, setting his phone down and sighing, “It doesn’t _feel_ like it, though. She’s just Charlie, and then she threatened to quit on me.”

“She threatened to quit?”

“Yeah, Dean sighs, “Said she was overqualified, which is more than true. She runs a whole goddamn convention business in her spare time. Her _spare_ time.”

“Do you need her?”

“Yep,” Dean says, setting his phone down to get his coffee, “I got no idea how many extra hours I’d need to put in without Charlie.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice gentle, “I am unsure these extra hours the you're speaking about exist. How many hours do you work a week?”

“Got no freaking idea. Sixty, Seventy. It's - it's not supposed to be like that forever.”

“I'm not sure I am conscious for seventy hours a week any more,” Cas says. One of Cas’ hands is resting on Dean’s knee and Dean has absolutely no idea how it got there, but it’s there, all casual and unremarkable. He didn’t even _notice_. “Although the flip side is that I am broke and bored.”

“Broke, huh?” Dean asks, throat tight. He sets his coffee down before he can drop it someplace. 

“Not yet,” Cas says, “I am still running off the years of being exceptionally well paid, but it will become a problem sooner rather than later. Dean, I am sure your friend will come round.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean sighs, losing his train of thought when Cas _squeezes_ his knee, and Dean’s head gets caught up on a treatise on his damn hands. They’re expressive. Warm. Deft. And - one of them is casually resting on his knee, like the guy didn’t have to get past six internal barriers before reaching out and touching. Like he just _did it because he wanted to_ , because Cas does what he wants. Quits his tax account gig. Goes after his writing dream even if it’s a slow burner. Leaves his phone number. Skims the skin of Dean’s knee with his thumb. 

Dean drags his gaze away and pinches his brow to shake the thoughts away.

“Why do you do that?”

“What?” 

“Look away,” Cas asks, voice curling into something a little like his bedroom voice, but softer. It carries less heat and it's freaking gorgeous. “I don’t have a problem with you looking at me. In fact, I’m exceedingly invested in you being attracted to me, Dean.”

“I just,” Dean says, swallows, forces himself to look back. Baby steps. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Cas says, putting his coffee down, and tilting his head at him. “You’re not in the habit of letting yourself have what you want. Why?”

“You’ve known me for like _ten days_ , dude. Don’t act like you’ve got me all worked out.”

“You work exceptionally hard,” Cas says, sitting crossed legged on his bed to look at him, eyes grazing the edges of skin intensely enough that it feels like a physical touch. “You persistently ignore your own needs and the most vocal you’ve been about what you _want_ was before we’d had a conversation. Why?” 

“I talk about what I _want_.” Dean counters, an uncomfortable sensation trickling down his spine, setting up shop in his toes.

“I’m not talking about pie, Dean,” Cas says and, yep, this is so far past a _baby step_. This is half a dozen times bigger than a _baby step_ and is way too much for him to deal with when Cas is sat there _commando_ in those jeans, looking at him like that.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Dean says, mouth very dry. 

“ _And_ you use work as an excuse to leave any situation you find uncomfortable,” Cas says, eyes slightly narrowed, “Dean, you have my permission to _look_.” Cas continues, voice intense and sincere enough that Dean actually _does_. 

He just… _looks_ at him.

It’s a bad idea.

Not the worst he’s had recently, but still a shockingly bad plan.

“Who the _fuck_ told you it was okay for you to skip underwear?” Dean asks, which is probably a _worse_ idea than looking at him, because then Cas’ frown transforms into a full-blown eye-crinkling smile, and then Dean’s kissing his dumbass smart-alecky words comeback right off his lips, and it’s all downhill from there. 

*

The motherfucking _time_ doesn’t occur to him until his phone starts ringing. 

“ - Sonuvaa,” Dean says, scrambling out of Cas’ bed to grab his phone, and then he actually _sees_ the time. He is _so_ , so late. He’s got time before service, maybe, but he’s never, ever, not been at the restaurant by this time of morning.

Kevin calling. The restaurant. The crap he’s _supposed_ to care about. 

Dean’s on his feet with the phone under his ear in under a second. 

“Kevin, I’m on my way. No, I aint dead… I’m fine, dammit, I just overslept. Don’t get cute with me, Tran,” Dean says, desperately scrabbling around from his goddamn underwear. “Okay. Yeah, I can handle it. I know Gordon’s a chump, but he’s the best we got. Yeah. Kevin. twenty minutes, and we can talk it out. Okay. Right, bye,” Dean says, hanging up half way through pulling on his jeans, “God _dammit_.”

“You’re late,” Cas says, sat up on his bed. 

“So late,” Dean says, “Where’s my shirt?”

“Here,” Cas says, watching him, eyes all crinkled with concern, “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“It’s - whatever,” Dean says, swallowing, because _goddamn_ this guy, being all apologetic and meek five minutes after blowing his freaking mind, again. He’s late for work, but even as someone’s whose been happily marinating in his closet full of issues for most of his existence, he can’t deny that the kick ass sex was worth it. “It’s _fine_ , I just really need to… scat.”

“Will your boss be okay?”

“I don’t,” Dean begins, sat on the bed to pull on his socks, “I don’t have a boss,” Dean says.

“You don’t _have_ a boss?”

“I am the boss,” Dean says, grabbing his phone, “So this late thing is pretty damn embarrassing.” 

“You _run_ your ‘corporate business’?”

“And I got every last cent of my savings in it, so I’ve really gotta -” 

“Go,” Cas says, “Fine. Your jacket.”

“Right,” Dean says, “Jacket. Car keys.”

Cas leans forward to kiss him, quickly, and follows him back into the main room of his apartment. 

“Cas, I really gotta -”

“Yes,” Cas says, reaching forward to kiss him again, twice. “Have a good day.”

“Yeah,” Dean says and, fuck it, kisses him again, “I’ll call you later.”

_Bite sized, manageable chunks_. 

*

Charlie is sat at one of the tables with her laptop and one of their extra freaking large coffee cups when he gets there, even though by all rights she doesn't need to be here for another couple of hours. His chest tightens a little. He _definitely_ doesn’t appreciate Charlie enough in all her bad ass, hilarious glory and she’s got a good point about him taking her for granted as a fucking incredible employee, too. There’s just… been a lot happening. A lot, a lot. 

“You eaten?” Charlie asks, not looking up from her laptop.

“No. This morning? _Really_ not going to plan.”

“You sir, need to eat,” Charlie says, twisting her laptop screen in his direction, “You know, he updated his blog.”

“What? When?” Dean asks, sitting down heavily. That’s exactly what he needs. A massive freaking dose of _reality check_ in the name of Dean’s food being dissected and laid bare for the masses, or whatever.

“Yesterday,” Charlie says, “This is _friend talk_ , FYI. As your employee, I reserve the right to remain pissed at you until further notice.”

“Fine,” Dean says, swallowing. He’ll take whatever he can get. 

“Aces, I’m getting you some breakfast,” Charlie says, “ _No_ objections, Winchester because, no offence, you suck when you’re hangry.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, massaging his forehead as he begins skim reading Cas’ fucking blog. No doubt, he’ll obsess over it plenty _later_ , but he really freaking needs to start work. Soon.

There’s a picture of the pasta and baby zucchini. It actually looks better than he remembers it being and Cas is plenty complimentary about all of it. About Dean. He can _hear_ Cas’ voice bleeding into the words. It is, as ever, intelligent, witty and kind of adorable.

Dean shuts the laptop with a click as Charlie approaches with a bacon sandwich and coffee.

Charlie is the freaking best.

“We should have a brunch menu.”

“We're a burger place,” Dean counters, through a mouthful of bacon.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “Brunch burgers, dude.”

“That's - that's actually a pretty good idea.”

“Hello, genius here?” Charlie says, reclaiming her laptop, and looking at him. “You _know_ it’s a metaphor, right?” 

“What?”

“Dreamy’s blog,” Charlie says, “About taking pretty basic, clubbed together ingredients and turning into a freaking _meal_.”

“Charlie,” Dean frowns, chest tightening, “Imagine I’m dumb and exhausted, and go again.” 

“A _one night stand_ , aka a box of dried pasta, turning into a _relationship_.”

“Pasta is a metaphor for a one night stand?” Dean asks, “Huh. I really have been out of the game.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, “Dreamy likes you, a lot.”

That is… not good. Kind of. _Maybe_.

He definitely should not be happy about it. 

“My _food_ , maybe,” Dean counters, feeling the tension start building up in his shoulders again. 

“Nope, nada,” Charlie says, “ _You_ , dumbass. And they’re _smart_ , too. It’s a good metaphor. Neat.” 

“Quit fangirling on me.”

“They’re super cool, Dean,” Charlie says, leaning forward and dropping her voice, “And note the respectful lack of pronouns where there are other ears.”

“Yep, I got it,” Dean mutters, downing half his freaking coffee, “Charlie. What’s this about?”

“Figured you’d wanna talk it out,” Charlie says, “Or not, but. Options. It’s good to have options.”

“It’s,” Dean begins, but he _can’t_ talk about it. He doesn’t even know what he’d say. He’s feeling a little raw and vulnerable after this morning, because most of what went down today went way beyond a baby step. Adding an actual _conversation_ on the back of it all is a bad idea. 

Especially when Charlie’s mad at him and only repressing it for the sake of his quarter-life-sexuality-crisis, if that’s what’s happening. Jesus fuck. 

“It’s…?” Charlie prompts.

“ _Not_ a big deal, Charlie, okay? That... it was that day I took off early that I cooked that, and that was the end of it.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, eyebrows slightly raised, “You have a hickey.”

He _really_ , really did not know that.

“Sonuvabitch.”

“Hey, it’s good for the guys to see you human, rather than boss mode all hours. Plus, you’ve been _super_ highly strung lately. Kind of a dick. Everyone here is happy you’re getting laid.”

“I don’t come across as _human_?”

“Well,” Charlie says, “You’re probably the most humany human I’ve ever met, actually.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, slamming his jaw shut. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what that means, but he’s pretty sure that it’s nothing good. “I need to - work.”

“Dean.”

“No, Charlie,” Dean says, standing up, “I need to fucking _cook_ , not sit around her chatting about this… this dumb, crap, so just. Drop it. Forget it. Don’t talk to me about this.”

“I am trying to _help_ ,” Charlie says, eyes flashing.

“Don’t,” Dean says, “Stick to threatening me about quitting your goddamn job and leaving me alone to deal with this myself. I don’t need _any of this_. I don’t need it.” 

“Okay,” Charlie says, folding her arms, not rising the bait like he kind of wanted her too. He could use a fight. Ideally, he’d like to have the fight with himself. He deserves to be punched in the face, or something, but he’d settle for having Charlie yell at him that he’s being an asshole. He _is_ being an asshole. “Call me when you need me.”

Dean slams his way into the kitchen to discover that Gordon, predictably, has screwed his whole goddamn system up, and he loses himself into trying to reclaim all his lost ground until his bone-tired and grumpy as hell.

*

Eighteen months ago, Castiel wrote _cooking for someone can be more intimate than sex_ on his stupid, shitty blog that Dean hates with every fibre of his being, because it’s steadily ruining his life. Dean knows that because he’s fallen into a rabbit hole of scrolling through the whole thing in a borderline-creepy attempt at soul searching. It’s in the first blog post he wrote, raw from quitting his job and being spat out from traditional attempts at getting into journalism, and it’s good.

_Cooking for someone can be more intimate than sex_.

It makes sense. Dean's gotten fucked by people without knowing their names and he can’t actually remember the last time he cooked for a girlfriend. There’s vulnerability in putting time and effort into something for them to _consume_ and taste and walk away satisfied. It’s personal and it _hurts_ when it goes wrong.

He can clearly remember the stark feeling of inadequacy when Sam used to refuse to eat the stuff he scrubbed together from whatever he could find and he’s not sure he’s ever felt the slap of rejection as strongly as John Winchester wordlessly throwing away his damn apple pie. 

Cas is _wise_ about this stuff. Dean’s pretty sure he could deal with the fact that he’s hotter than hell if he wasn’t so goddamn _interesting_ , with the way he talks and the broad philosophical crap he slips into mundane posts about texmex. 

Dammit. 

He writes that Dean ‘understands the practical necessities that underpin food’ while ‘coaxing joy’ from cheap tinned tomatoes. He writes about the spark of smugness that came when he realised Dean had bothered to shower but not eat before coming over. He writes that he feels disturbingly pleased to see Dean poking around his kitchen, given that at this point they have known each other for three days. Dean can see the goddamn metaphor now Charlie has pointed it out to him, in the line about Cas projecting his own doubts about the potential for a meal because of years of him trying to cook himself crap pasta. He talks about tinny tasting tomato sauce that he tried to mask with salt and drown out with basil. He talks about the frustration of understanding the mechanics of how good food _should_ work, without being able to cook himself, and how that tainted his view of what could be done with such sparse ingredients.

That _that’s_ why he usually doesn’t bother to try.

It’s all maddeningly _honest_ and the more he reads it the more is painfully clear that Charlie is dead on the money. Cas _likes_ him, a lot, and he’s already fucked it up beyond usual levels of fuck up.

Dean’s phone starts blaring out Metallica and Dean shuts his laptop with a decisive click.

“What?” Dean says by way of answering the damn call, standing up to grab himself a beer. He needs to eat, too, because he totally forgot to think about that when he got home. He’s pretty damn sure that Charlie wordlessly thrust a doggy bag of the burgers that Gordon screwed up the portioning of so badly that Dean flat out refused to serve them at him, but then he’d have to turn on the grill and he’s freaking exhausted. 

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam asks, voice twisted into irritated concern, “I called you like four times.”

He should’ve known he couldn’t avoid Sam forever. 

“I - sorry Sammy, been busy,” Dean says, headed into his kitchen and opening his fridge. He finds some bread in one of the cupboards that hasn’t actually grown mould yet which is _good enough_ after the day he’s had. “Garth’s off sick. Freaking ‘flu, in goddamn _June_ , so now I’m stuck with Gordon subbing in on the line. Usual restaurant crap. How’s studying, dork?”

Restaurant crap is a good excuse that Sam will almost definitely buy, especially because it’s the only thing going on in his life around ninety five percent of the time. There’s really no reason why Sam would jump to a burgeoning gay relationship with a guy who writes on his blog that Dean’s both a try hard hack _and_ endearingly easy to please, so he’s probably safe for a while. His tragic existence should at least give him time to sieve through some of the bullshit. 

Baby steps. 

“Slow,” Sam says.

“Turns out the bar is hard, huh? Who knew?”

“Right. If only someone had told me,” Sam says, with an audible eye roll, “How’s your autumn menu?”

“ _Don’t_.”

“I thought it was going better?”

“It was,” Dean says, jabbing at the toaster, “Now it aint. Talking about it isn’t going to make the situation any prettier.” 

“You need to hire an _actual_ Sous Chef so you can take the time to actually do your job, Dean, instead of heading up service every single day.”

“That is the only thing I don’t suck at right now,” Dean counters, as the toaster pops. He takes both his toast and his beer over to the sofa and collapses onto it. It’s never as comfortable as he expects it to be because he’s tight as hell and his sofa is a piece of cheap junk, and he winds up jarring his neck in the process.“Why did you call _four_ times?” Dean asks, wedging the beer between his knees and using his spare hand to ease the pain out of shoulder blades, before he remembers that’s where his fucking _hickey_ is and he flushes so hard it's no longer worth the stress-relief. 

Goddamnit. 

“Because, Dean, you invited me and Jess to the restaurant, remember?” 

“Oh,” Dean says, through a mouthful of dry toast, “Yeah, okay.”

“I booked a table for Friday.”

“Sam, you’re my freaking brother, you don’t need to book a table,” Dean mutters, “Let me check whose working.”

“I already did,” Sam says, “With Charlie. Kevin, Bess and Ash are your headline acts. Garth if he’s back off sick. You want the list of servers too?”

“No,” Dean grimaces, “Fine. Friday night. We can finish this little chitchat then, because I am freaking exhausted, Sam, and my week has been a total shit show.” 

“I want details on Friday.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, hanging up and drinking another swallow of beer. He eats another two slices of dry toast when his stomach starts rumbling and he gets his laptop back out to resolutely _not_ answer his emails from Marv and to pull up the table plan for Friday night.

If he’s going to eat in his own damn restaurant to spy out whether his garlic bread really does taste closeted from the other side of the serving hatch, he might as well get the best damn table, except -

Dean’s so distracted staring at the goddamn screen that he doesn’t register the fact that he’s tipping his final finger of beer all over the sofa, because -

The table that’s booked under _Sam Winchester - 7:30_ is right next to one booked under _Gabriel Milton - 7:45_ and Dean is so, so screwed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I may need to go something that isn't sit on my sofa and write this story for a little while. Definitely didn't mean to write this next update that quickly.


	6. Chapter 6

He calls Charlie.

She said he could, even if he’s definitely being a total freaking asshole and most definitely pushing his luck with all of this crap. He owes Charlie at least a dozen beers, a month of Saturdays off work and one of those lame-ass ‘best friend ever’ mugs already, and it’s only set to continue by the look of his shitty luck and general terrible life decisions. 

“Charlie,” Dean blurts out, pacing his goddamn flat with his heart racing, “Gabriel Milton is Cas’ _brother_.”

“What?”

“I - Gabriel,” Dean says, “His brother. Cas. Castiel. McDreamy face or whatever the hell you called him, his _brother_ , is Gabriel.”

“Okaayyy.”

“ _Gabriel_ who’s booked a goddamn table next to _my brother and me_ on Friday,” Dean says, “It’s, damnit, Cas is coming back to review the restaurant.”

“Probably,” Charlie says, “Dean, we did know this was going to happen.”

“ _That is not the kind of logical interlude I need right now_ ,” Dean hisses, “Charlie, what do I _do?_ ”

“Cancel on your brother,” Charlie says, like it’s _that simple_ and.... Honestly, that hadn’t even occurred to him. He’s had five minutes of concentrated panic before he grabbed his phone and dialled Charlie’s number and not in any of those seconds did it occur to him that he could just _cancel_.

“But - Cas has been to my apartment, he’s seen pictures of Sam. He’d _recognise_ him and then they’d - start talking.”

“Dean, Sam and Jess are coming to the restaurant because they want to _see_ you, if you cancel, they won't come.”

That is…. Exceptionally logical. 

“I - but Cas _will._ He'll be at the restaurant on Friday and then he’s gonna assassinate my character and my goddamn food with his freaking extended metaphors about _pasta_ , and it’s - I don’t need any more of my flaws highlighted on the internet by the _guy_ I’m sleeping with.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, and Dean can just picture her expression of abject sympathy, “Have you considered -”

“ - No.”

“Just tell him the truth, Dean.”

“Are we talking about Sam or Cas here? Because, no fucking way.”

As a _concept_ , it’s a good idea. Objectively, he understands that is the only way out of this situation bar joining witness protection and changing his identity, and the _truth_ is infinitely more practical the the latter. If he was someone else, he’d be recommending it as a course of action.

It’s just about as far away from a baby step as you can get, and he _can’t_ do it. He is so far off being ready to sit down and have a conversation about any of this that the idea of it is making him want to buy a full tank of gas and hit the road to literally anywhere else. 

Where would he even _start_? 

_Hey, Sam. Remember four years ago when I told you I thought Doctor Sexy was really goddamn sexy and never mentioned it again? Well, I’m dating a guy who publicly ripped into my whole life’s work on the internet, and he doesn’t know. Good times._

No goddamn way. He knows the look Sam would send him if he dropped _that_ bombshell in the middle of the dinner and he knows the avalanche of emotional bollocks that would come after. Sam would want to sit down and talk it out; braid each other’s hair and hash out his goddamn feelings, until Sam had managed to pin down exactly what was _wrong_ with Dean. He’d want Dean to come out to Bobby. He’d get all puppy-eyed and sad about it . He’d bring up decades worth of irrelevant childhood issues to try and Oprah him into loving himself. He’d _ask_ about it. He’d read Cas’ blog. He’d pester him into doing something he’s not ready for so he could wrap it up in a bow and call it a happy ending. 

Sam cares about him with a dogged persistence that’s annoying as hell. His investment in Dean’s happiness is just _too much_ when it comes to this stuff. That first conversation had been bad enough, and Dean was never really sure that Sam got what he was trying to freaking say, he just knew that it made him feel like someone was stabbing holes in his lungs with plastic cutlery, so he stopped talking about it. 

Sam kept giving him this look like he wanted to start the conversation again so Dean started spouting outrageous crap like _the Phantom Menace is the best Star Wars film_ and _Donald Trump isn’t that bad_ just to get him to talk about something else, until he seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing.

He can’t do that again. 

And _Cas_. 

Cas _said_ that first morning that he’d assumed Dean was an emotionally repressed closeted asshole before Dean had blurted out that he should stay for breakfast, and… 

Even if all of that is true, he really does not want _Castiel_ to think it. 

“Both,” Charlie says, “Dean, you're hiding your job from Cas, you’re hiding Cas from Sam, you're hiding from Marv, period. You’re hiding from your Autumn menu and you’ve hidden most of this from me too.”

“Your point?” Dean asks, voice blunt, because he doesn’t see how a motherfucking tally is going to help him feel any better about this. 

“Tangled, web, sir,” Charlie says, “And - forget everyone else for a minute - you're going to end up hurting yourself.”

Dean starts pacing again. 

He can rearrange with Sam and deal with whatever Cas thinks of his restaurant the second time round. He did _know_ that Cas would be reviewing his damn food again, it was just too easy to forget whenever the guy was endearing and snarky or whenever Dean remembered what he looks like. Or what he talks like. Or the crap he can do with his tongue. 

Damnit.

“Sam - Sam knows,” Dean says, clenching his jaw.

“About Cas?”

“No,” Dean says, the words getting clogged up in his throat, “That I, uh.”

He can’t even _say it_ to his lesbian best friend who already knows.

How is supposed to have this conversation with literally anyone else?

“Oh, that you have inclinations to muscles and stubble sometimes. Okay. That's _something_. Could you tell him about Cas?”

“I - no.”

“Just to be clear here, Winchester, this isn't supposed to be _pressure_ , but if you can diffuse one of these grenades you might be able to think straight. Pun _so_ not intended.”

The adrenaline leaves him all at once, and then his limbs feel like overcooked pasta (and not the kind that’s a metaphor for a one night stand). He slumps onto the seat of the kitchen and feels a wave of something a little like sadness hit him like a brick wall. 

He is horrifically underqualified for this.

“I _can't_ do it,” Dean says, the words creaking out of the chest, painful. He’s a hot mess. He _knew_ that, obviously, but the fresh revelation of how goddamn pathetic he is isn’t welcome. _It should not be this hard_. “Charlie.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, “Tell Cas.”

“It's, Charlie, he barely knows me. He's not gonna stick around if I throw that bullshit at him.”

“He might.”

“Would you?” Dean asks, squeezing his eyes shut. She’s silence for a beat too long and, yeah, if Cas finds out how much he’s been lying to him it’s _done_. If even _Charlie_ , who's usually a ray of sunshine when it comes to this kind of crap, isn’t trying to sugar quote it, it’s done. He already screwed it up too much.

“Dean,” Charlie says, “So, uh, him not sticking around. That's a problem?”

Dean resists the urge to smack his head off the wall.

“Goddamnit,” Dean says, “I've known him for less than two fucking weeks, Charlie, why do I feel like this?”

“You've heard the phrase _falling for someone_ , because...?”

“This is _not_ supposed to happen.”

“It usually isn't,” Charlie says, “Dean, this isn't a bad thing, okay? It's just...something.” 

“I know it's something,” Dean bites out, “That's the whole fucking problem. It's _something_ , I just have no idea how I let this happen.”

“Why shouldn't it have happened?” Charlie asks, part coaxing, part confrontational, and it’s too much. Even _this_ conversation has everything in his head spinning and his stomach clenching.

“I'm not supposed to _be like this_.” 

That, he didn’t mean to say.

“What is that even supposed to mean? Who _says_?” Charlie says, “Dean -”

“I - I bet I can get Cas to cancel coming to the restaurant on Friday,” Dean interrupts, curling his left hand into a fist. His chest hurts, but - if he can -- he can delay Cas coming to the restaurant for a while, at least, and then Dean won’t have to read that Cas thinks the _real_ Dean Winchester is a needy fraud with daddy issues right under a treatise on how goddamn nice it is to meet someone authentic and growingly comforting. “You don’t need me, right? You and Sam already clubbed heads together about my taking some time off -”

“ - yeah,” Charlie says, “Forty five minutes during the middle of dinner service, not the _whole_ service but, yeah, Kevin can handle it, I guess?”

“Great,” Dean says, slipping the call on speaker so he can bring up Cas’ details. He’s pretty damn sure he knows enough about Cas to get him to bail on his review-and-food date with Gabriel, even if it cements the fact that he’s definitely going to hell. “So I’m gonna leave after lunch service finishes, and I’m gonna cook. He wrote a freaking sonnet about some dumbass pasta, so he’s not gonna turn down proper food, right?” 

_You free on Friday evening?_ He thumbs out to Cas, hands shaking slightly. 

“Dean,”

“It’s gotta be _good_ or he won’t cancel, Charlie, so I can’t just leave a couple of hours early or he won’t - I _need time_ , or it’ll… I need some goddamn time.” 

_Three course meal, my apartment, late start on Saturday_ Dean carries on typing, before Cas has a chance to reply and say that he’s busy and Dean loses his nerve. 

“Look,” Charlie says, “Dean, _yes_ take Friday evening off if you want - if you weren’t your own boss I’d say you should sue for a better hours and a holiday package because, seriously dude, but you can’t just -”

“- and I’m gonna be in at eleven on Saturday. Just before service starts. Guy’s really into lie ins.”

“ _Eleven_? ”

Dean’s phone pings with a reply from Cas.

_A late start :O?_

He’s such a fucking dork, Dean’s got no idea what to do with it.

_That sounds excellent. I will arrange standing up my brother_.

“Okay,” Dean exhales, “He’s cancelled. Will cancel. _Okay_.”

“Question,” Charlie says, “Did the logic jump where the obvious solution turned into inviting Cas over for a romantic dinner sound like bullcrap in your head? Because, holy guacamole Dean.”

“What?”

“The denial is strong with this one,” Charlie says, sagely, “I mean, wowza.” 

“If this is gonna be on the table for discussion,” Dean says, pinching his forehead, “I prefer to think of this shitshow as something that is _happening to me_ rather than something that I am actively participating in.” 

“Okay, good luck with that,” Charlie says, “Because _that_ is over my threshold of crazy talk for this evening.” 

Dean’s stomach drops.

“Charlie, I need you,”

“I know,” Charlie says, “It’s a problem.”

“Hey,” Dean swallows, “Have I told you how awesome you are recently?”

“No,” Charlie says, “But that’s okay, I don’t need reminding. I know I’m awesome. I just don’t think _that_ is healthy.” 

“Did I ever claim to be dealing with this?” Dean asks, staring at the last message from Cas with a lump in his throat, “Charlie. If he tries to make a reservation…”

“ _Fine_ ,” Charlie says, “Fine, I will screen your reservations and say we’re fully booked, but _not_ because I think it’s a good idea and _only_ because I am a kick ass friend, who will be here to pick up the pieces when this blows up in your face.”

“Charlie, you are _awesome_ ,” Dean breathes, “And I’m - damnit, I’m sorry, okay? About everything. I dunno if you got the memo, but apparently I’m losing my damn mind. I _should_ have talked to you about that work stuff but I’m, I’m working on it. I promise.”

“About that,” Charlie says, “I trust you.” 

“That sounds like a colossal error of judgement,” Dean mutters, “It’s late. Damnit. I need to -- sleep and wake up as someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.” 

“You need to cancel on Sam first,” Charlie throws back, which is a very good freaking point, “And Dean -- whatcha gonna cook for Cas?”

“Uh,” Dean says, “No idea.”

“Cause you know,” Charlie says, with an audible smirk, “Cooking for someone can be more intimate than sex.”

Hanging up on her is completely legitimate.

And so is being cowardly enough that he cancels on Sam by text. 

*

Obviously, because Sam doesn't know the meaning of a proportional reaction, he shows up at the restaurant at twelve the next day demanding an explanation which, in fairness, Dean probably should have seen coming.

“ - Dean, I need _two_ bacon, one lamb like _yesterday_ and Sam says, I quote, ‘it’s not that busy’ and ‘tell him I’m not leaving until he tells me what’s going on’ , so -”

“I have your freaking order, I’m waiting on a _goddamn side salad_ so if someone over there could _do_ something to speed that up then that would be freaking peachy -”

“Two minutes, Dean -”

“ - it’s a _salad_ , it’s not even food, and - Anna - tell Sam that it is _that busy_.”

“I’m a server, Winchester, not a messenger,” Anna throws back, “You want me to deliver food _and_ passive aggressive messages, I’m going to need a pay rise. I’m taking the two bacons, if the lamb and the salad isn’t here when I get back -”

“- yep, okay, fine. _Gordon_ , get me a fucking salad before I have to come over there and do it myself.” 

“New ticket, Dean, and your brother -”

“ - _yes_ , I know my damn brother is here, Zeke,” Dean says, “Just - give him a table. I’ll work it out if I ever get my _side salad, no dressing_.”

“Here,” 

“ _Finally_ , Anna - here’s the rest of your ticket, and maybe start warning people there’s a twenty minute wait on salad, apparently.” 

“Hey Dean,” Charlie says, appearing out of nowhere, “Sam says -” 

“For _fuck’s sake_ ,” Dean mutters, “Fine. Get him some food. I can give him ten minutes after he’s eaten.”

“I’ll take his order,” Zeke says.

“No,” Dean interjects, because _hey_ , he needs some semi-objective eyes on the case, anyway. So far he’s only managed to sample the garlic bread (four times over) because he never takes a break long enough to eat an actual burger. If Sam’s going to show up in the middle of his working day, the least he can do is be his guinea pig. “He’s having the mac and cheese burger and the cheesecake.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, wrinkling her nose at him slightly, “Come on.” 

“Two birds,” Dean says.

“You’re doing that uptight thing again, FYI,” Charlie says, leaning forward and dropping her voice. “I’ll ticket up Sam’s order.”

Dean grimaces at her and does his best to reign in the asshole-levels until Sam’s more or less finished his cheesecake. He _really_ should have slept more last night, instead of freaking out on Charlie for half the night. 

“You know I’m _working_.” Dean says, sitting down heavily at the other end of Sam’s table and raising an eyebrow at him.

“You’ve always said Thursdays are quiet,” Sam shrugs, taking another forkful of cheesecake. After twenty five years of being a big brother, he probably should have learnt never to say anything that he didn’t want Sam to retain and throw back at him in the most inconvenient moment possible. He has _no idea_ when he told Sam that Thursdays were quiet, but the kid has an undeniable point. It _is_ quiet. Only half his tables are full. 

“I _also_ said I was down a line chef, remember?”

“Yeah, Dean, I also remember you saying you meet me for dinner on Friday,” Sam bitch faces, which looks extra ridiculous in his inaugural study-hoodie. There’s something about seeing a grown ass adult squeezed into a hoodie they bought they were seventeen which will never _not_ be funny and… damnit, he has _missed_ Sam. He’s a good kid. Self-righteous smart ass, but definitely one of the best people he knows.

“Touche,” Dean says, “How was the burger?”

“Good,”

“Not - you didn’t think it was trying to hard?”

“What?”

“Was my burger trying too hard to be relevant?”

The lines of Sam’s bitchface intensifies into a familiar _what the hell, Dean?_ expression that he’s been well acquainted with over the years. 

“Relevant to _what_?”

“I can honestly tell you that I’ve got no idea.” 

“Dean, what the hell are you talking about?” Sam asks, setting his fork down to stare at him. Dean rests his palms against the surface of the table and tries to think of a good backstory for that particular question but, no, he’s got nothing except the truth.

“I - food blogger,” Dean blurts out.

Almost _definitely_ a bad idea. 

“I though food bloggers were all millennial asshats who weren’t qualified to have an opinion?” 

“How’s studying going, Sam?” Dean asks, loudly. 

“You know _you’re_ a millennial, Dean.”

“Did you come here to quote dumb things I’ve said at me?”

“Dean - what’s going on?”

“What’s going on with what?”

“You never ignore my calls,” Sam says, all pouty and every inch his kid brother, “And now you’re cancelling a dinner _you_ suggested.”

“I’m just - busy.”

“Kevin said you’ve barely been here,” Sam says, “Compared to _normal_ , as least.” 

“I,” Dean says, “Busy with _other_ work stuff. The, uh, Autumn Menu.”

“You literally told me last night you’d made no progress with the Autumn Menu.”

“We can reschedule dinner for next week, Sam. Any night of the week you want. Friday’s just - I’m busy.”

“You’re _working_. You can take forty five minutes to join us for food, Dean. I checked before I made the reservation that you had enough staff.”

“No, something came up. I’m - got a night off.”

“What?”

“Sam, it’s not a big deal, okay.”

“You’re taking a _whole Friday night_ off?”

“I’ve got a date, okay?” Dean just _blurts out_ because apparently, for the first time in weeks, his lie-filter is not happening. Now he’s just _telling Sam the truth about crap_ all by accident, which is… not what he wanted to do. Not even a little bit.

_Bad idea_. 

“You -,” Sam begins, then closes his mouth, scans his face and narrows his eyes. “Is that a _hickey_?”

Goddamnit. Fucking _Castiel_ and his snarky mouth. Goddamnit.

Dean slams his jaw shut.

“Oh my god, you have a _hickey_.”

“Jesus Christ Sam, what are you? Twelve.”

“Are _you?_ You’re the one with the hickey.”

“This is _not_ how I saw this conversation going,” Dean mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, face definitely flushed, and oh god. Fuck. The fact that this conversation is happening at all is just… a lot. A _lot_ a lot. 

“So you’re seeing someone?” Sam prompts, actually smiling now. 

“I - yes.” 

“Why didn’t you just say?”

“It’s new and it’s - it’s not a big deal.” 

“Not _that_ new,” Sam says, nodding at the hickey.

“Just because _you_ don’t put out on the first date, doesn’t mean that I have to have standards,” Dean says, “And I had no freaking idea Cas had done that.” 

“Cas?”

“Right,” Dean swallows, “Cas.”

There’s a _chance_ he can get out of this conversation without lying or coming out to his brother (again) in the middle of his restaurant. It’s a slim chance, admittedly, but… it’s _possible_.

He just needs to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible. 

“So - friday.”

“I’m cooking,” Dean says, chewing the words over in his mouth, “Risotto.” 

“You’re _cooking_ ,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows, “Wow. That’s pretty serious, Dean.”

“Shut up.” 

“So - tell me about Cas,” Sam says, half leaning across the table, eyes shining. 

“What do you wanna know?” Dean asks, heart rate picking up. He is _playing with fire_ here and he has absolutely no idea what’s going to happen if Sam inserts a freaking gender into his next question. He’d have to just say it. He’d have to just… say that Cas is six foot very dude-like dude with a voice that perpetually sounds like he’s just been to a rock concert and abs and really nice shoulders. He’s pretty sure he’s dating a guy. It’s happening. Dinners and coffee and texting and all of that junk.

“Where do you meet?”

“Bar,” Dean returns, swallowing back the desire to pretend to be suddenly mute, “Couple of weeks ago. We’ve, uh, seen each other a few times since then. Look, Sam, I really need to get back to work. I’ll tell you more about it later.”

“But you like her?”

Damnit. God fucking _damnit_.

He has to correct him. He _has_ to. He can’t lie to Sam’s face. He can’t do it and Sam… he won’t care. He didn’t care in the half conversation that they had about it before and Dean’s got no reason to think he’ll have developed some kind of deep bigotry since then. 

The only person who cares about this is Dean.

_Uh, him, Sam. I like him_.

“Yeah,” Dean says, out loud, even though his everything is screaming in protest, “Yeah, I do.” 

“That’s _great_ , Dean,” Sam says, wide smile in place.

“You want some garlic bread to go?”

“What?” Sam asks, his gushing-pride face faltering, just a little. 

“Nothing,” Dean mutters, standing up, “Let me know the day you want to rearrange dinner.”

“I’ll check with Jess,” Sam says, fucking beaming at him as he pulls himself up to his full (and ridiculous) height. “Dean, this is _really_ great about Cas, okay?”

Charlie is clearing the next table. She pauses halfway through wiping half a packet of salt off one of the chairs to catch Dean’s eye over Sam’s shoulder. She’s smiling, too, eyebrows raised as she gives him a thumbs up. 

It’s fucking _A plus_ that he gets witnesses for the moment that’s going to send him to hell. 

“Yeah, I get it, you’re happy. You want me to have a life excetra, excetra, now beat it, bitch.”

“Thanks for the food, jerk,” Sam says, “And hey, let me know when I can meet her.”

“Yep,” Dean says, through an unnaturally wide smile, “Sure thing.”

He face palms onto the table the second Sam is out the door. 

“That,” He mutters into the polished wood tables he picked out eons ago, as Charlie sits down at the table opposite him and waits for him to acknowledge the latest installment in his list of screw ups. “Did not go to fucking plan.”

*

Castiel posts a review of their Friday date on Saturday evening. 

He writes that the evening involved _some of the greatest things he’s ever put in his mouth_ and it’s hilarious and charming enough that Dean laughs out loud, before he remembers that’s probably _more_ information than Charlie needed to know about his freaking sex life. 

He doesn’t write about the unabashed smile Cas gave him after Dean bought out an actual bottle of wine (he picked everything on the damn wine list at the restaurant, so it’s not like he doesn’t _know_ about that crap), or the fact that they were talking so much the risotto went cold and he had to heat it up again.

He doesn’t write about Cas sitting on the sofa while their dessert cooked, or him draping his leg’s over Dean’s lap after Dean came to join him there, the warm weight of Cas’ thighs under Dean’s palm. Cas’ words brushing against the skin of his earlobe as he made a damning, but fair, assessment of every bit of furniture in Dean’s apartment. 

He doesn’t write about finishing the bottle of wine after dinner, back on the sofa, and saying _Dean, I think this is going very well_ in a voice that was as warm and rich as whiskey. 

He does not write that Dean kissed him instead of replying, either, but there’s some melancholy note in the last few lines of the blog post that Dean can’t quite pin down that has him pretty sure that Cas was disappointed.

_Still. Baby steps._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colleague, tomorrow: oh hey Helen, what did you do this weekend?  
> Me: ummmmmm  
> Colleague: did you like... leave the house? Socialise? Do laundry?  
> Me: .......no  
> Colleague: ...  
> Me: no. I wrote fifteen thousand words of fanfic.  
>  
> 
> (Read: this is definitely a personal updating record)


	7. Chapter 7

Sam is one of the most obstinate individual’s Dean’s ever met. That’s not _new information_ ; most of his childhood was spent growingly aware that Sam and John Winchester took the top two in the stubborn stakes as Dean tried to fight fires from all directions just to get them round the same damn table for a meal. His painful awareness of it feels _new_ , though, as he heads off the sixth damn request to be introduced to Cas of the day.

He was granted _one_ week of peace before the freaking hounding started. 

And it’s all fucking stupid, because it’s not like Dean’s had _time_ to check his phone and read the six text messages. Garth’s flu spilled over into a chest infection and a _third_ week off sick and Ash is on annual leave to do something nerdy that Charlie talked about, a lot, during service last week. Gordon barely counts as a staff member, anyway, and Bess was only down to work the lunch shift and couldn’t do dinner service. He’d be exhausted even if he wasn’t on tenterhooks constantly, waiting for the house of cards he built by sheer flailing to come crashing down. As it _is_ he’s dead on his feet and isn’t really sure why he drove to Cas’ place rather than his own, because the only thing he's good for right now is falling into bed, face first, until his morning alarm goes off.

Cas did say he should come over, though, and in his brainless state he just agreed. He read _that_ message, but now he’s stood outside his front door skimming through the crap from Sam, and he knows full well he should be home instead.

Sam’s all _it allwaaayyys goes wrong when you shut me out_ and _Dean I care about your welfare sooooo much_ and the usual crap that Sam pulls out when he wants something. Not that either of those things aren’t _true_ , because they are, but they’re usually unvoiced entities that exist as backdrops for conversations. He doesn’t need them clogging up his damn inbox when he’s trying to juggle sixteen different lies at once.

Not that Sam knows that which, you know, is one of his ninety nine thousand problems.

Dean’s halfway through muttering obscenities at his phone when Cas opens the door to his apartment and stares at him. 

Fucking _A_. 

“Did my door offend you?”

“It’s not my door I’m pissed at,” Dean says, pocketing his phone. He can deal with that _later_. Not when Cas is all blue eyed and fucking wonderful, because then Dean might have a moment of temporary madness and text Sam to inform him about the biggest lie in their twenty-five year relationship to date, then promptly have some kind of panic attack and die. Anyway, Sam was pissed enough about Santa, Dean’s got no idea what he’s gonna do with _this_. “Little brother. How - how d’you know I was here?”

Cas tilts his head at him and his lips pull into a smile that Dean would probably have to describe as _fond_. It’s the kind of thing that would have had him high-tailing it out of there two weeks ago, so. He is making _progress_. It’s just slow going, and probably not fast enough to avoid a fallout. 

“Do you remember approximately three minutes ago when I buzzed you into the building?” Cas asks, voice all crinkled and lovely.

Right. 

“I,” Dean begins, but there’s not much excuse for that, “I have been at work since six AM.”

“It’s _ten_.” 

“Short staffed doesn’t even begin to cover my life right now.”

“And your brother is pestering you?” Cas asks, frowning as he opens the door to let him into the apartment. 

“Credit to the guy, he doesn’t know how eternally fucked I am,” Dean says, following him in on automatic, mouth churning out words without any brain input. He crossed over into robot-mode shortly after the third returned steak-burger that he couldn’t even really be mad about, because the kitchen was backed up and they were far enough in the weeds that _he’d_ panic. Kevin did pretty damn good, considering. “Dunno if it would make a difference, though, kid’s all gung ho about meeting you. Difficult to put off the scent.”

“He’s twenty five, Dean, he’s hardly a child.”

“Spoken like a true little brother.”

“He,” Cas says, then looks at him, skin slightly pink, “He wants to meet me?”

“A lot,” Dean returns, “Six messages a day, a lot.”

“I wasn’t aware that he knew about me,” Cas asks, voice very _deliberate_ and -

Dean really sucks. He _really_ fucking sucks. 

Cas is a pretty well-adjusted guy. There’s gotta be a story behind why he quit his high flying tax-accountant career that they haven’t talked out, but for the large part - and definitely compared to Dean (which is, it is a fair to say, a shockingly low bar)- Cas is freakishly sane about everything. 

And the _one_ time it turns out Cas is insecure about something, there’s not a damn thing that he can say to make it better without tangling this web further around him, or just out and out lying.

_Obviously, Cas. Obviously he he knows about you._

Except he doesn’t. Dean’s been as sparse about details as Sam will allow him to be. He certainly hasn’t sprouted any more extraneous information like the fact that he was _gonna cook risotto_ or whatever the hell else. Sam knows that someone of his name exists and he can see through Dean sufficiently that he gets that this is… important, but he doesn’t actually _know_ about a damn thing. 

“I,” Dean begins, “Some stuff. Cas, I didn’t mean to just -”

Just declare that he doesn’t _want_ Cas to meet Sam right at the beginning of his evening, which is more or less what he’s just done. Indirectly, but it’s all there in the subtext. _Sam is nagging me to let him meet you and I’m irritated because I don’t want you to meet him._

And it’s true. He doesn’t want them to meet. Can’t comprehend the concept of them in the same building, at the same time, sharing oxygen.

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas says, frowning at him, but not unkindly. Concerned. “You shouldn’t have come if you’re this tired.”

“M’fine.”

“Hey, Cassie,” Gabriel interjects from the sofa and _right_ Gabriel is here. Was the first person at the buzzer, too, so that Dean got five seconds of classic-brother bickering about opening the door before he was actually let in. Fuck, Dean’s exhausted. “Didn’t know you dated zombies now.”

“Gabriel, you are hilarious as ever,” Dean comments without enthusiasm, shedding his outer shirt on the back of one of their chairs, before drifting towards the sofa. That’s usually how it ends up.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cas says, settling close behind him, hand on his lower back just for a moment before it’s gone. “I have been coerced into watching a show about baking. Gabriel, you are far too short to take up the entire sofa. Move.”

“Baking?” Dean asks, slumping down in the space now vacated by Gabriel’s limbs, feeling the cushy warmth of it rise up to meet him and - damn, their couch is comfortable. The aching in his legs and his shoulders is resurfacing now that he’s finally stopped moving, but he feels more human than he has all day. Fuck, he loves this dumb, ugly sofa, with it’s foamy _arms_ and those cushions. 

“Gabriel has claimed sovereignty over the remote,” Cas says, frown pulled taunt, “Dean, you did take breaks during your _sixteen hours_ at work? Eat?”

“I, uh, picked up a burger when I text you. Lunch.”

“At four,” Cas says, frowning, “And nothing since?”

“Like I said - understaffed,” Dean says, eyes half shut. 

“Dean, you are forcing me into doing something I really did not want to do,” Cas says, achingly serious, “I am going to have to cook for you.”

Dean forces his eyes open to raise an eyebrow at him. It takes an undue amount of effort that was _probably_ worth it just to see the flushed determination written across the guy’s face. 

“I thought you _didn’t_ cook.”

“He doesn’t,” Gabriel chimes in, cheerfully, “You really should have eaten something at work, Deano.”

“Cas - it’s fine.”

“No. Regardless of whether _you_ deem looking after yourself important -” 

“ - you don’t _own_ food, right? You said that.”

“You left groceries here,”

He does not remember doing that, but it sounds plausible. Probable. 

“I have - bread and...eggs.” 

“If you’re thinking about microwaving eggs, I gotta draw the line -”

“Grilled cheese,” Cas declares, with an air of triumph, “I can cook grilled cheese.”

“He can’t,” Gabriel says, without looking away from his TV show.

“How can you fuck up grilled cheese?”

“We’ll put that on your headstone,” Gabriel grins, reclaiming the rest of the sofa space with his legs, “Cassie, can you open a window before you start? Preemptively.”

“ _Gabriel_.” 

“I’m kidding. You’ll be great, kiddo. Just remember the Soup Triumph of 2003.”

“It was _not my fault that microwave caught fire_.” 

“You,” Dean begins, eyebrows skyrocketing, “You set fire to a microwave making soup?”

“Heating, Deano. _Heating_.”

“I - cannot even process that. Okay,” Dean continues, eyes heavy, “So you just _review_ other people’s food then come home and set microwaves alight?”

“I never _claimed_ I could cook.”

“Castiel Milton, 2018: “I can cook grilled cheese,” Gabriel adds, “Anna wishes you luck. Lucy wants to know if you remember the Soup Triumph of 2008.”

“It is startling to me that you are still able to surprise me with how irritating you are,” Castiel says, from the direction of his kitchen. Dean’s limbs are heavy. The exhaustion has coiled down into his feet, which are throbbing with frustration at being left in his boots after _that_ long running around the damn kitchen. “Now, let me _concentrate_.”

“Spoiler alert, Cassie, it’s bread and cheese.”

“ _Shush_ ,” Castiel says, with enough conviction that Gabriel laughs and turns up the volume of his baking show that Dean doesn’t have the capacity or inclination to focus on. He wants to watch Cas cook, but that would involve propping himself up rather than relying on the sofa; twisting in the seat or standing, and he’s not sure where that kind of energy would come from. Instead, he listens to the familiar lullaby of kitchens. Cupboards opening, plates clinking, the hiss of butter in a pan. 

He has to blink himself back into awareness when Cas solemnly delivers him grilled cheese and it’s… it’s _bad_. The bread’s caught the skillet and speckled black and the there’s so much freaking cheese that it’s not all melted, and it’s falling apart and - and Dean kind of loves every damn thing about it. It’s objectively fucking awful, but it’s salty and the familiarity of burned toast, hot, buttery enough to leave his fingers smeared with it. He eats the whole thing, quickly (he is _hungry_ , as it turns out), with Cas’ intense, borderline-anxious stare drinking him in. 

“Well?” Cas asks, with this husk to his voice that Dean kind of wants to preserve and keep. Bottle up so he has it on tap.

“It’s, uh,”

“It was terrible,” Cas supplies, forehead creased, completely fucking adorable.

“Kind of,” Dean smiles, as Cas sits down heavily on the sofa next to him, “I mean, you’re better than Sam.”

“Really?”

“No,” Dean exhales, “I - sorry, Cas, I can’t lie to you.”

About _this_ , apparently. 

Everything else is a fucking _free pass_. 

“But,” Dean says, “You’re really freaking adorable. I mean, you’re the cutest guy to ever make me a grilled cheese this bad and _that_ is the honest to god truth.”

Gabriel snorts, Cas’ frown collapses into a pleased looking smile, and Dean’s pretty goddamn sure that’s the first time he’s ever expressed that kind of sentiment, before. He’s managed to say, out loud, that Cas is _hot_ but not that other, less sexually-charged stuff. Nothing about the tug under his ribs he gets when he thinks too hard about Cas bickering with his brothers. Nothing that’s just straight up _sentimental_.

Fuck. 

“Thank you for eating it,” Cas says, settling back on the sofa, all close and solid and -- all that crap Cas wrote about _growing comfort_ and the sensation in your chest when something becomes nostalgic before it’s even done - that’s, that's how it feels. 

And he’s bone-tired enough that there’s no space left in his head to overthink anything, so he winds up curling himself under Cas’ arm on the goddamn sofa like he’s not been living in his closet enough that he’s started to rot. Even if he _was_ the kind of person in a committed, honest to god relationship with a guy, _he_ wouldn’t be the one freaking burrow under Cas’ arm, letting the heavy weight of the day over take him. Dean Winchester is the reluctantly snuggled, not the damn snuggler. He doesn’t go seeking out sexless-tactile touches just because his day sucked and he’s tired, but here he is. 

More comfortable than he ever figured he could feel in some guy’s apartment, with the rhythm of Cas and Gabriel’s exchanges washing over him. Gabriel says _cooking for someone can be more intimate than sex_ all layered with snark and Dean pretends to be asleep so he doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t know what the fuck Gabriel’s talking about, and then Cas says _what would you know about sex, Gabriel? I thought Kali had cut you off_. Gabriel fires something back about high school and Cas responds in kind, but mostly Dean is focused on Cas’ fingers absently running through his hair and the warmth of the freaking awful grilled cheese in his stomach. 

*

He half wakes up boneless and completely relaxed in Cas’ bed, with absolutely no freaking idea how he got there. There’s a chink of light in the corner of the room and then there’s Cas’ silhouette unbuttoning his shirt, but none of the context. The mystery of _how_ hooks onto a thread of consciousness, till a little of his drowsiness unravels. 

“You fell asleep,” Cas says, quiet.

And that… makes sense. The world’s longest day at the kitchen. Cas’ grilled cheese. The goddamn baking program. Dean turning into a snuggle-whore, with _witnessess_. 

“On the sofa?”

“Hmm,” Cas says, slipping under the covers in his boxers. “Your back was hurting you before, so I bought you here.”

He definitely _didn’t_ mention the fact that his back hurt, but that’s Cas all over. Reading him like a damn book, and Cas reads books with enthusiasm and analytical fervour.

“You - you can _carry_ me? Dean asks, blinking himself more awake, “With your… with your arms?”

“Yes.”

“Unspeakably hot,” Dean mutters into the darkness. 

“Before I carried you to the sofa, you were drooling on my sofa.” Cas says, mildly. Dean presses a hand against his forehead and tries to reconcile that fact that he’s basically mortified by not being attractive in front of someone that, on one of those basement hell levels in his conscious, he wishes he wasn’t attracted _to_. It would be a lot easier if he wasn’t. “Don’t worry,” Cas breathes, then there’s a hand on his cheek, a thumb tracking his jawline before it retreats. “I am still very in to you.”

Dean’s traitorous sleep-drunk body chases the touch, till he’s pressed up against Cas’ back, hand draped over his middle.

And, okay, _spooning_. 

Fine. 

Apparently his _body_ thinks he can deal with that (initiated it, even. And who the hell authorised _that_ , exactly?) and his mind hasn’t exactly rejoined the waking world yet, so apparently that’s a thing. Spooning. Okay. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean exhales, eyes shut again, “Cas. This - this stuff you know I’m keeping from you. About - about work. You know that’s not about you, right? It’s me that’s the basket case, here. You’re awesome.”

“Let’s talk about this in the morning,” Cas says, gentle and soft, “You’re tired, Dean. I can wait.”

And, really, the guy shouldn’t have given him freaking permission.

*

He wakes up before his alarm and decides that now is a really damn great time to call/get his brother back for all those freaking messages. Cas is asleep, as _most_ people are at ten to six in the morning, so Dean slips out into his kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and call Sam.

“Dean,” Sam says, all blurry and clogged up with sleep, “Dean, it's - what time is it?”

“Five fifty little brother.”

“Dean,” Sam complains, bleary, “Jess - go back to sleep. It's fine. It's - why are you calling me?

“You seemed pretty keen on chatting, Sammy.”

“Its _early_.”

“Yep. And I'm getting up to go to work, where I will be until at least nine, because my freaking cooks are dropping like flies and it's my ass on the line. You know how much money I lose every week if I can't get this food out?”

It’s _true_ , so he’s not gonna feel bad about it, even if it’s not exactly the whole picture. His list of things to feel bad about is pretty freaking long without adding any extra, minor stuff, though, so that’s the story he’s sticking too. This is… a necessary sanity-building white(ish) lie. If he can get Sam to back off, maybe he’ll stop choking on guilt (about _that_ ) enough to think. Maybe.

“Okay,” Sam grouses, “I get your point, Dean. You're busy.”

“I'm _normally_ busy, right now I am swamped, so please _drop this_ until I have the time to work it out.”

“Okay,” Sam says, through a yawn. “Fine, Dean, I just wanted to -”

“ - I know what you wanted, Sammy, and I get it. But it's not at that point yet. You hear me?”

“Okay,” Sam exhales, “Okay. I hear you.”

“Okay,” Dean says, folding his hands arounds his coffee. It’s occurring to him _now_ that he just had a motherfucking sleep over with Cas last night. He just… _slept_ at his apartment, sexlessly. There was _zero_ sex, and he slept here. In his bed. In _Castiel’s_ bed, with no other intentions except sleep.

There was spooning and that weird late night _chat_ and not even a little sex. 

“Why are you whispering?”

Damnit. 

“I’m - Cas is asleep,” Dean says, jaw sticking in the words. Sleepover. A freaking _sleepover_ and - and his good work with Sam is shot to hell now he’s _at_ Cas’ freaking place. 

“Dean,”

“Sorry, Sam, signal in Cas’ place is -”

“ - Dean.”

“ - I’m losing you, Sam, can’t hear a dam words. Call you later.” Dean says, hanging up before he can say anything _else_ he regrets and makes a beeline to Cas’ shower. He’s not freaking thrilled about having a sleepover _and_ a shower stop, but he’s not bothered enough to drive all the way back to his apartment before going to work. He turns it up scalding hot to coax some of the residual pain out of lower back, instead, and gets a weird kind of pleased-panic that Cas left him a towel out. He must have gotten it out last night. 

During their sleepover. While Dean was asleep, after not having sex. After coming over to Cas’ apartment just so _sleep_. 

By the time he’s out of the shower, Gabriel is putting peanut butter on a freaking pop tart in the kitchen, which is way more insanity than he can deal with right now. 

“Sleep well, Deano?” Gabriel asks, stealing most of the coffee and adding a horrifying amount of sugar. Dean blearily tops his own mug up with the dregs of the coffee pot, resolutely not reading the new texts from Sam.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, “You’re up early.”

“When do you think the pies get made?” Gabriel says, through a yawn. “Man, I hate mornings. So anyway, what are your intentions with my little brother?”

“Nice segway,” Dean mutters, taking the pop tart - peanut butter free pop tart - Gabriel offers with a grimace. 

“Nice avoiding the question, ken doll.”

“No offence, Gabe, but I’d rather have this conversation with Cas. You know, later. When you're not here.”

“Fair enough,” Gabriel counters, adding another spoonful of sugar into his damn coffee. “You're a big brother. You know how it is.”

“Calling you a _big_ brother is a stretch,” Dean mutters, washing down a mouthful of poptart with more coffee, “But I get the general idea.” 

“I'll put laxatives in your pie.”

“Noted. Good talk.” Dean snorts, glancing at Cas’ bedroom door, then back at the empty coffee pot.

“Not worth it,” Gabriel says, putting two pop tarts together to form a weird-ass pop-tart and peanut butter sandwich thing that Dean can’t look away from. “Pot won’t be fresh by the time our Cassie gets up. Unless you’re waking him for goodbye smoochies.” 

“I’d say eat shit,” Dean says, draining his coffee and standing up, “But you kind of already are. ‘M gonna head out.” 

He’s not even _fleeing_ , this time, he just wants to let the guy sleep and he is so, so screwed.

“A pleasure as always,” Gabriel says, dipping his freaking pop tart peanut butter sandwich in his coffee flavoured sugar water. “Oh, please,” Gabriel says, as he catches Dean’s expression of mild horror, “Still better than Cassie’s grilled cheese.”

And… that could be completely true, but he’s sure as hell not willing to try. 

*

He begins his mid split-shift coffee break with Charlie by declaring “I didn't sleep with him last night,” loudly enough to gain the attention of most of the members of staff at the coffee shop they usually frequent, which is not his best work. He doesn’t spontaneously combust out of sheer panic, though, so that’s _something_. 

It’s still embarrassing as hell, though, and he winds up with his forehead in his hands at their table.

“Um,” Charlie says, delicately taking another packet of sugar with a smile, before sitting down abruptly next to Dean. “Go again.”

“We - we didn't sleep together last night.”

“You and Cas?”

“Yes,” Dean says.

“Okaay,” Charlie says, “Well, if we’re doing contextless truths about our sex lives, I didn’t get any last night either.”

“I mean - I went over to his, and we didn't screw. I fell asleep. Not like _that_ , Charlie, I just -we didn't fuck. Not sure we even freaking kissed, actually. We just _watched TV_ with his brother and he made me grilled cheese and then I fell asleep on his damn sofa.”

“He made grilled cheese? But Castiel doesn't cook,” Charlie says, leaning forward across the table and raising her eyebrows.

“He cooked.”

“But - the Soup Triumph of 2016!” Dean frowns at her. "The blog." Charlie adds, waving this away.

“Damn, how many ways are there to fuck up soup?”

“ _That_ is a blog post you should encourage him to write,” Charlie says, drinking a mouthful of coffee before setting down her mug and looking at him. “So, I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Huh?”

“Because apparently you don't _date men_ , you just do married-couple stuff with them.”

“Charlie,” Dean grimaces, “So, _so_ not there with the jokes yet.”

“My bad,” Charlie says, “Dean, I think this is good. You’re getting more comfortable with this.”

“Really?” Dean asks, voice hard. 

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Charlie says, gesturing wildly, “Dude, you’re all - making with the sleepovers and talking about in public. And you like him.”

“Well, yeah, Charlie, that’s how this whole freakin’ mess happened in the first place,” Dean counters, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Right, but you just _acknowledged_ it in conversation, rather than getting all squeaky.”

“I do _not_ get squeaky.”

“A little,” Charlie says, “This is _a lot_ , Dean. You’re doing well.”

“Right,” Dean mutters, “This is _well_. Charlie, my _brother_ thinks I’m dating a chick and my - and Cas - probably still thinks I’m in freaking porn.”

“Okay, _firstly_ , no one in porn works from seven AM till nine PM, Dean. Whatever he thinks you do, it definitely aint porn anymore. My personal theory is that he thinks your in the mafia. Secondly, while, yes, there are distinct areas for improvement - you just told a whole damn coffee shop you had a sleepover with your BF.”

“Woah there, Charlie, reign it in with the _BF_ crap, okay?”

“So - you’ve been pretty close guarded about this,” Charlie says, leaning forward, eyes wide and imploring. “And that makes me sad, because I think this is good for you. So -- tell me about Cas?” 

And then he does. 

*

He feels pretty _good_ on the way back to restaurant, considering he’s spent the better part of forty five minutes talking about his fucking feelings. Charlie needs all the goddamn awards, because he’s never, ever managed to get himself a conversation about _any relationship_ with actual details about what’s going on in his chest, let alone one with a guy.

He told her about the risotto and Gabriel giving him the intentions speech and the terrible grilled cheese, and the world doesn’t actually end. It’s okay. Good. _Fine_. 

He doesn’t feel like someone’s dropped a high rise building on his chest.

“Bess - how's Garth doing?” Dean asks, after his pulled on his chef whites and headed into the kitchen to oversee dinner prep. He gets a loud, pointed silence in return, with Bess in particular looking wide-eyed and surprised. “What, just because your boss I'm supposed to not have eyes? I ain't dumb.”

“Uh,” Charlie says, “There's technically a rule against that.”

Now _that_ is news to Dean.

“What?”

“Against dipping your baguette in the office cheese.”

“That is... disturbingly graphic,” Dean returns, making a face, “Since when?”

“Uh - Since Marv?”

“What? Seriously? I don't give a damn. I mean, what the fuck ever. Bess, you wanna date Garth that's your own freaking business. Hell, if Ash and Kevin want to hook up, what the fuck does it matter to me? If Charlie and Dorothy wanna get down-”

“ - Yeah that last one actually happened?”

“What?” 

“I'll tell you later,” Charlie says.

“If you break up messy, don't go using my kitchen equipment for crimes of passion and we're golden,” Dean mutters, “Anyway, I made up a flask of chicken soup. I know it's freaking July, but you know - flu equals soup. Should keep him going. And, also, if that's two being under the radar, you suck at it.”

“Whatever you say, Hickey boy.” Dorothy chimes in and, okay. 

He deserves that.

He _doesn’t_ deserve the following argument with Marv, during which he winds up signing for the new menus as some kind of twisted compromise of getting rid of the stupid no inter-restaurant-dating rule that he had no idea existed. 

*

Cas writes a post about his damn grilled cheese, which Dean wasn’t really expecting him to. It’s - short. Barely anything. The damn thing is _three_ freaking sentences, but it sets up shop in that space under his ribs and stays there for the rest of the damn day. 

_Three days ago, I cooked D grilled cheese. It was terrible. He ate it anyway._

*

“Kevin,” Dean mutters into his phone, sitting up in bed. “What? I told Ash I was gonna be in at nine… watch your cheek, kid, I’ve been a little more lax about my damn start time, I’m not exactly taking a goddamn vacation… Yep. Oh, now you want my help? Yeah. Okay,” Dean says, massaging his forehead and shutting his eyes briefly, “Yep. _Okay_ \- half an hour.”

Cas is awake. He’s mid stretching out his back like a cat, but frowns deeply and starts spelling something out with his freaking fingers at Dean’ words. Dean gapes at him. It is way too early to be playing freaking _charades_ with his… not-boyfriend. Ongoing sexual partner, with whom he has occasional sexless sleepovers. And dates. And spooning. Text messages. The occasional romantic dinner dates. Nights like last night where they watched a movie on Dean's sofa while Cas complaint about how crap his sofa is.

“What? No, not you Kevin,” Dean says, pressing the phone into his neck to try burry Cas’ words into his skin. “What?”

“Breakfast,” Cas says, looking so damn sleep ruffled and cute that Dean can’t even argue with him. 

“Scratch that Kevin, I need an hour. Okay. _Okay_. Hold the fort till I’m there,” Dean says, hanging up and dropping his phone onto his pillow. “Breakfast?”

“I’m hungry and you cook. The math is irrefutable.” 

“What d’you want?” Dean asks, peeling himself out of bed. Stretching. Watching him.

“Do you have three kinds of cheese?”

“Omelette, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas says, sitting cross legged on his bed, watching as Dean pulls on a shirt. 

“What’s up?” Dean asks, pausing in the doorway of his bedroom to look at him. Cas looks… smaller. Shoulders sloped downwards. Requesting his mother’s food. “Cas, come on. Talk me me.”

“You need to get to work.”

“You can talk while I cook,” Dean says, “You can’t pull the kicked puppy look and not tell me what’s going on in your head.”

Cas tilts his head and follows him into the kitchen. It takes him a little while to work up to it. He's quiet and a little baleful through one and a half cups of coffee, other than to answer Dean’s questions about recreating his mother's omelette.

The he puts his coffee down.

“I’ve had to increase my hours at the cafe again,” Cas says, watching him move round his kitchen. There’s subtexts in that: money worries, writing struggles, disappointment.

“You were working on that article.”

“They bumped it,” Cas says, flat. “They do that. It was off speck, so I don’t get paid, either. Perhaps…”

“No, dude, you’re not giving it up cause of one rejection.”

“This is embarrassingly far from the first. I am thirty two, with a pity job from my brother.”

“He needed you to set up the cafe.”

“Yes, but it _is_ set up. Now he’s paying me too much in an attempt not to wound my pride. Writing isn’t working, Dean. I’m not - I’m not doing _well_.”

Dean wants to say that he’s kick ass at writing. That he’s funny and compelling and that Dean gets sucked in by all of it, but he can’t. As far as Cas is aware, Dean’s never read a damn thing he’s written.

“You’ll make it work,” Dean says instead, pausing at the table to rest his hands on his shoulders, “You're smart, Cas, gutsy as hell for quitting your job, and you've got stuff to say. You - you don't need to give up on this and you don't need to feel bad about working for your brother. That's family, Cas. You helped him chase his dream, now he's returning the favor. You - you're awesome and you're gonna be awesome.”

“Dean,”

“You're big break is coming,” Dean says, “I’m sure.”

“Gabriel runs a business, _you_ run some kind of mysterious business, Anna is an artist, Michael, Lucifer and Raphael are all lawyers. I get _tips_ and I blog.”

“Come help me with this omelette.”

“What?” Cas asks, eyes widening, “Dean, I can’t.”

“Just trust me,” Dean says, voice soft. Cas approaches the kitchen counter like it’s the goddamn gallows, but Dean slots himself behind him, pressed up against his back, with his thumbs resting over his arm. “Whisk. Like this.”

“Dean,” Cas protests. His voice is syrupy and his hands are warm and steady under Dean’s and, fucking _screw_ his personal bullshit, because Cas feels crappy this morning. That’s the part of this that’s important. 

“Trust me,” Dean says, pressing the word into his neck, just below his ear. “Add some of the cheese closest to your hand.”

“If you have to recook this -“

“- no way,” Dean says, “Butter in the pan. That’s enough. Yep. Turn up hot. I’ll tell you when to turn down the heat.”

“This is a bad idea,”

“I have faith in you,” Dean says, smoothing his hands over Cas’ sides to settle on his waist, “You can do whatever the hell it is you want, Cas. Except make soup, maybe. Okay - egg mixture in the plan. Slow. Little slower. Okay, you got stir it a little now, just until the texture - yep. Now, more cheese. Little more salt.”

“I am not putting salt on your food.”

“This is officially _our_ food,” Dean says, “Cas, I’ve got you. Just a little. Okay, stop. Now we wait, until the mix catches on a fork and doesn’t run back, and then we’re gonna finish it under the grill - and it's gonna be delicious.”

It is. 

Kissing the pleased surprise of Cas’ face after the first bite is _more_ so. 

*

“Dean, it's one fries one sweet potatoes fries, not two fries -”

“ - Kevin, get me some sweet potatoes fries, stat, or it's a refire on chicken, and I really want this service done so we can all take a freaking break -”

“- Last ticket, Dean.”

“ _Last ticket,_ people. One bacon, one cheeseburger no cheese which - I'm not even gonna start on that bullcrap - and one mac and cheese. Charlie, hold on taking these out, I will have you sweet potato fries in one minute. Right?”

“Heard,” Kevin calls back.

“Awesome,” Charlie says, “And then coffee and girl talk?”

“No can do, Bradbury, heading over to see Cas.”

“Pie date?”

“No,” Dean says.

“ - Sweet potatoes behind, hot -”

“ - Gotcha,” Dean says, “And no pie date, he was just kind of down this morning so I was gonna swing by and…”

Kevin catches his eye as he sets down the sweet potatoes and his eyes widen, just slightly.

_He was just kind of down_.

He said _he_. 

He just fucking said _he_ in the middle of a - he referred to _this morning_ and Charlie said _date_ and they all - because of the goddamn hickey, they all _know_ he’s dating someone, and he - _he just said he_. 

Dean drops the sweet potato fries. 

And it’s _loud_ which means the kitchen is _quiet_ which means - 

Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck. 

“ _Kevin_ ,” Dean says, through the knife in the back of his throat, “You did _not_ hear that.”

“Um.”

“I - that,” Dean begins, fumbling enough that he nearly knocks the freaking chicken burger off the hatch and - 

“Okaaay,” Charlie says, “Zeke - go ask table four if they mind getting the rest of their food now and a five minute wait on the sweet potato fries. _Ash_ on the pass, Kevin - another sweet potato fries, _double_ stat. I’m just going to borrow Dean in his office but, _last ticket_ people - go team.”

“Dean,” Kevin says, “I don’t - I don’t care.”

“Kevin, you’re sweet and we know, but uh - not the moment. Okay? Dean. Office, now.” 

Somehow, he gets there.

“Dean,” Charlie says, shutting the door behind him, “It’s _okay_.” 

It feels a little like someone’s trying to vacuum up his internal organs through his throat, but less fun.

“I -- _fuck_.”

“Dean.”

“I just came out to my _staff_ before my brother.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, “Not the ideal order of business, but - hey, you did it.” 

“Charlie,” Dean mutters, swallowing, “Tell me that didn’t happen. Please.”

“Look, I know this doesn’t feel like it this exact second, but this is a good thing.”

Whatever he's paying Charlie, it's not enough.

“Can you - finish service for me? I need to, uh. Sit. Breathe.”

“If that's what you want,” Charlie says, chewing on her bottom lip. “But- talk it out later?”

“Okay,” Dean says, through his shut eyes and overwhelming feeling of sheer panic, “Okay, fine.”

By the time Charlie is back, he’s pocketed his car keys, shed his chef-geer and is so, so ready to get the every loving fuck out of his kitchen. He’s about eighty percent sure that he’s not going to have a panic attack, and if he leaves now he wouldn’t have to actually _look_ at anyone on on his way out.

If he takes the back exit. Quickly. 

“Dean?” Charlie asks from the doorway, voice layered with concern. 

“Going to see Cas,” Dean says. His voice sounds weird (not fucking _squeaky_ though, so Charlie can shove that up her ass) and his limbs have the consistency of souffle but, he’s doing this. He’s going to see Cas. He decided he would earlier, so he’s fucking going.

He’s already a colossally shit not-boyfriend by virtue of lying about almost everything about his existence, so he’s not letting Cas down any more.

Kevin _does not care_. The rest of his fucking kitchen staff _don’t care_. Charlie is more invested in this than she is about freaking comicon and -- and Cas was sad this morning. 

“You sure?” 

“Yep.” Dean says, even though his lungs are filled with setting cement, “I -later, Charlie.” Dean finishes, disappearing out the back before any of the kitchen staff have a chance to finish clean up. 

He’s a fucking coward, but that’s not news either.

His going to trickster cafe to cheer Cas up has sort of morphed into going there to remind himself why the fuck he's even doing this, anyway, but that's fine. Either way, he gets an extra twenty minutes of time with Cas and maybe - maybe if he spends enough time soaking in his presence he'll absorb some freaking balls (in a non weird way) and be able to walk back into his kitchen later and actually look Kevin in the eye.

After he gets there, Cas catches his eye as he enters and offers him a smile, giving him a two minute signal and slipping into the back office to negotiate taking a break with Gabriel.

Then, because karma for this whole comedy of errors is beginning to catch up with him, he turns around to find that _motherfucking Sam_ is sat at Dean’s usual table, nursing a black coffee and a book on the damn Bar exam. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went outside! I went to work! Socialised! Dinner!  
> And now here is more chapter for you. I will get to all your lovely and wonderful comments shortly too - thank you.
> 
> And next up: drama.


	8. Chapter 8

The logical thing to do is run the fuck away (and _maybe_ move to Canada).

Sam hasn't seen him yet. He's all caught up in his super nerdy career studies, and Dean knows from experience how into that Sam can get. He's still wearing the goddamn hoodie, which spells hyper focus. He could just walk out _right_ now and not have to deal with it.

Cas would be confused, but... He could say he was called back into work. That his mafia boss that Charlie thinks Cas thinks Dean has needed him urgently. That someone died. That he suddenly came over violently ill and couldn't wait for Cas to have finished speaking to his brother. That he forgot someone's birthday. That he -

-That he dropped his car keys loudly enough that his brother has looked up from his coffee.

Fuck. Triple fuck. 

Oh, God.

“Dean,” Sam says, and, how can the snot nosed brat Dean goaded into doing his brushing his teeth for years cause such a feeling of dread? It's Sam. Goddamn Sam, his favourite person on the planet. The reason he moved across the damn states (at least, most of the reason). The guy he worked his ass off to put through college, even if Sam wound up managing half of it on his own. The kid he’d give anything he fucking asked for. It's _Sam_. “Hey. I thought you were working?”

_Why would his fight or flight instinct be the only thing left in him functioning?_

“When the hell did you start coming here?” Dean demands, rather than the traditional hello. _Fight, then_. Goddamn wonderful, especially when he’s pretty damn sure that _flight_ is the only correct answer. His feet aren’t moving, though, he’s just stood at the counter, snapping at his brother.

Sam gapes at him, his dumbass long hair flapping in surprise that Dean has, apparently, lost his freaking mind.

“I _took_ you here, remember? Because of the pie?”

He... He had definitely forgotten that.

God-fucking-damnit.

“Dean, why are _you_ here?”

“Pie,” Dean flails out, grip tightening on his car keys. “I like...pie.”

“Uh, okay,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes at him, “Are you...going to _order_ some pie?”

That would be a _normal thing to do_ , but he hasn't actually ordered anything since that first day. Cas just brings him things and then Dean debates the lack of paycheck until Cas finally concedes in the name of not totally screwing over Gabriel. It’s… he can’t _order_. 

Sam stares at him. Dean’s chest does a pathetic little jolt, that might just be his sanity’s death throes.

“...No.”

“What?”

“What?” Dean parrots back and, goddamnit, this is going about as tits up as he’d expect. Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Stares at him some more.

“Did you hit your head?” Sam asks, “Take drugs or something, because …. You're being really weird, Dean.”

“Your,” Dean begins, internally writhing and convulsing, externally doing fucking _nothing_. “Your _face_ is weird.

Sam bitchfaces at him, hard, and Dean can’t exactly blame him. Nothing’s even freaking _happened_ yet and Dean’s so far from chill that he’s a goddamn oven, and Sam has no context for what the fuck ever he’s actually doing and -

“ - Apologies, Dean,” Cas says, barreling out of the staff kitchen towards him and - _oh god, oh god. Fuck, fuck, and damn it_ \- Cas is still talking, coming towards him with his work apron tied around his waist and his eyes and his hair and his voice. _And what if he tries to touch him when he gets close enough?_ Kiss him? Start talking about their sexless sleepovers and how Dean hangs out with his brother and cooks him food? “... I had to remind Gabriel the amount I used to earn per hour before I selflessly quit my job to help his business venture and… oh, hello.”

And, yeah, he should have ran.

He should have left the goddamn planet.

Castiel is wearing a name tag. It says ‘Castiel’ all over his goddamn chest, and Sam knows Dean Winchester. Knows his type. Knows his tendency towards nicknames. Knows that Dean wouldn't leave his restaurant in the middle of the day unless - 

Sam's gaze drops to the name tag. Dean can fucking hear the thoughts churning in his head and then he - damnit - his brother looks Cas up and down. Takes in those dumbass slacks Cas usually wears when he's not making Dean’s brain explode with jeans. His perpetual bedhead. The blue, blue eyes and the curve of his shoulders. He takes in all of Cas’ six foot man-like-qualities and is apparently satisfied with his conclusion.

He looks at fucking Cas and thinks _yep_. Dean's type.

And Dean is really, really not okay with that assumption. Even if it's true. Cas has got Dean's type written all over him, it's just that Dean's never allowed anyone to acknowledge that he could have a non-woman type and -

He is so not fucking ready for this. He'd rather face down Kevin four times over. Put his hand in a toaster. Go out for dinner with Marv.

“You're Cas,” Sam says, slowly, gaze fixed on Cas’ face. He - Dean has absolutely no idea what Sam is thinking. No fucking clue. 

And.

Dean should really _say something_.

But, nope, he's got nothing. Not a damn thing.

“Oh, Sam,” Cas says, face breaking out into a smile and, oh god, Dean is so screwed because _that fucking smile_. Dean has never been able to deal with that smile with appropriate decorum and now Sam is here while Dean is trying to deal with that smile and it’s… _not good_. “Dean's told me a great deal about you.”

Sam's face does a weird half aborted taken aback expression. He looks at Dean _who still has absolutely no fucking idea what he's supposed to say_ then back at Cas.

“Really,” Sam says, mouth set. “Well this is great, I'm due a study break and I've wanted to meet you for weeks.”

“The bar exam,” Cas supplies and, oh fuck. There is no chance in hell that he can pass this off to Sam as some causal, inconsequential thing, because - Cas knows about Sam. About his career plans and about Jess and about how he was a pain in the ass teenager and Sam -

-Sam doesn't even know that Cas doesn't know that he's a fucking chef.

“Its - later this month?” Cas continues.

“Right,” Sam says, gaze shifting to Dean, as Dean silently tries to concentrate very hard on mastering spontaneous combustion. “The end of July.”

“Dean said that you’ve been working very hard,” Cas says, “I’m sure that you’ll do well.” 

Dean's going to hell, and soon, because there's no way he's going to make it out of this alive.

“So, you work here?” Sam says, and he’s - _fine with it_ , obviously. Sam doesn’t give a damn who the hell he sleeps with, or the other stuff, and actually they’d probably get along pretty damn well. They could snark at each other about fucking politics and other nerdy stuff that’d go over Dean’s head and it would be kind of awesome, if it wasn’t for the fact that Dean _can’t do it_. 

And Sam is just _asking him questions like this is a normal meet cute_ and - 

“It's my brothers cafe,” Cas says, “The short irritating one.”

“Right,” Sam says, nodding and -

_\- It should be noted that Dean hasn't said a fucking thing._

“Dean’s been kind of light on the details about you,” Sam says, gaze shifting back to Dean, momentarily, “Which usually means he’s being all weird about having feelings.”

“Sam,” Dean says, swallowing, and _hey, that was an honest to god word_. He doesn’t have a follow up, granted, but he’s been non-verbal for the entirety of this conversation so far. So that’s…. Something. 

And then Jess walks in.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Jess, hey,” Sam says, “Look who we ran into. This is Dean's...” Sam pauses, glances at him, and Dean’s insides preemptively contract and seize up because, Jesus fuck, what is Sam going to _say_? “...Boyfriend, I guess.” Sam finishes.

Dean drops his car keys again. 

It feels worse than he thought it would. He'd been toying around the word in his head, not - not in relation to Cas, but in relation to two nameless faceless men that had absolutely nothing to do with Dean and his life, to see how it sounded. Felt. And it wasn't… It wasn't terrible. In his head, it wasn't terrible.

_This_ is fucking awful, and _awkward_ and they're all goddamn looking at him with his flailing limbs and the discomfort written all over his face and - oh fuck - Jess.

To her credit, she barely reacts. She reacts enough that Dean figures Sam never _did_ tell her about that weird half-conversation he had with Sam in the first place, but she doesn't say _no fucking way_ or drop anything she’s holding like a total moron. She just blinks and accepts it, like it’s not a big deal.

“Hey,” Jess says, holding out a hand to both of them in a wave. She smiles like everything is fucking _peachy_. “Thought you were working today, Dean?”

Right. Words.

“I - lunch break.”

“Huh,” Sam says, for all the world like Dean saying something intelligible, rather than garbled nothing. “Looks like Cas is a good influence on you.” 

“Would like a top up of coffee Sam? Jess?” Cas asks, levelling his gaze at the pair of them. “On the house, of course.”

“Yeah, that'd be great,” Sam says, smiling, “You should come join us, Cas.”

On a better day, the helpless look Cas gives him would be enough to make Dean snap the fuck out of it, but he just outed himself to his _whole goddamn restaurant_ before he walked into the shitshow. It’s not fair on Cas. The freaking reason Dean’s here is because Cas is having a _a bad day_ , without Dean blumbering around enough that Cas has to take over navigating the conversation with Dean’s goddamn brother.

He should have _introduced them to each other_ , made a dumb, tasteless joke, rested a hand on Cas’ arm to let him know that the whole thing was okay. That even though Dean _said_ , more or less outright, that he didn’t want this to happen yet, it was still okay.

_Yeah, Cas, come meet my pain in the ass little brother_. 

Not a damn thing comes out of his mouth.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Cas says, his gaze piercing the side of Dean’s face and _dammit_. Damnit. Why can’t he fucking talk? “My break is -”

“- now, right? You said you’d just talked to your brother,” Sam says, a slight edge to his voice. “It’s not a problem. Right, Dean?”

“Right,” Dean says, managing a smile. It’s a garish, forced thing, but it is actually in attendance to his face, so that’s something. He’s got no fucking clue what’s been happening expression-wise so far, but he doubts it was pretty. “Pull up a seat, Cas. Let’s, uh, do this thing.” 

Dean sounds like a ninth grader teacher trying to convince the bottom set that calculus is a good time for all. He is, however, forming actual words, so that’s _something_.

“Dean, if you -” Cas begins, forehead creased, quieter.

Cas, at least, is giving him an out. 

Last night, the guy was waiting outside his apartment block when Dean got home, armed with pizza and beer. They watched three episode of Jessica Jones on the sofa, Dean distractedly tapping his fingers against Cas’ knee, paying more attention to Cas’ treatise on how the freakin’ narrative structure was created than the actual show. Midway through episode four, Dean set down his beer, hit pause and kissed him, just because he wanted to. Went down on him, just because. Threw an arm over his shoulders on the sofa, mostly naked and comfortable as hell, and none it felt like him trying to fit himself into some mould that someone else carved out for him. It just felt like it fit. 

“It’s cool, Cas,” Dean exhales, sounding like a normal person for the first time since this disaster happened. His chest hurts and his head is spinning, but at least he’s producing actual real life sound. 

Cas smiles. 

Dean’s the worst person in the fucking world. 

“I’ll get the caffeine,” Cas says, turning on the spot to disappear and head towards the coffee. The rest of them are suspended in complete quiet until the kitchen door swings shut, and then - 

“ _Dean -_ ”

“Look,” Dean hisses, sitting down and dragging his chair close before Sam can deliver the whole _I don’t care that you’re interested in men, Dean, why didn’t you feel like you could talk to me_ shtick, because they have serious fucking ground to cover before Cas gets out here. He drops his voice down to a whisper, just in case. “He doesn’t know that I’m a chef, so just, _zip it_.”

That is clearly not what Sam is expecting.

“What?” Sam asks, matching Dean’s just-above-whisper-volumer, his forehead creasing into a familiar _what-the-fuck-Dean_ face that Dean knows pretty damn well after two and a half decades. It got recurring star status in his late teenage years, downgraded to guest star since Dean followed him to California.

“He doesn’t _know_.” 

“What?” Sam asks, “Why wouldn't he know about _that_?”

Good goddamn question, Sam. 

“It’s - you know what? That’s not relevant right now, so. Shut your mouth.”

“I - what the hell?”

“I’m heart attack serious about this, Sam. You mention the restaurant I’m gonna have to punch you in the face.”

“Sure, Dean, fine. He doesn't know about your perfectly ordinary job. Does he know that you _live in Narnia_?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Dean snaps (quietly), stomach clenching. That hadn’t occurred to him. He’s been so goddamn caught up on the lie about his job and Cas’ goddamn gender, that he kind of _forgot_ that Cas just assumed that he was out and comfortable and… _goddamnit_. “And _no_. Just, be chill, Sam, for fuck’s sake.”

“ _Me_ be chill?” Sam asks in a hissed whisper, “Dean, what are hell are you doing?”

“Do I look like I know the answer to that question?” Dean demands, “It all just - happened and you kept freakin’ nagging me and I just -” 

“ - _lied_ to me?” Sam says, “No, you know what, that doesn’t even matter. I can _see_ why you lied, because you’re a hot mess -”

“ - I am _trying to sort crap out_ -”

“ - but you _know_ that no one cares Cas is a guy, Dean. We _talked_ about this -” 

“ - it was a long time ago Sam, it didn’t know if you remembered,” Dean angrily whispers back.

“You don’t _forget_ your brother freaking coming out, Dean!”

“You never mentioned it!”

“You kept talking about Donald Trump every time I tried!” Sam says, throwing his hands in the air, “Dean. Everyone just wants you to be happy.” 

“Well, fucking _good_ ,” Dean throws back, finally fucking _breathing_. Oxygen floods into his lungs so damn fast that his head goes a little fuzzy. Sam doesn’t care. He did know that. He _knew_ that. That was never really the issue, but it’s still… not the worst thing in the world to hear, out loud. _Sam doesn’t care_.“Good.”

Sam folds his hands on his table and sighs, finally reverting to a normal volume. 

“I like him,” Sam says.

Of fucking course Sam likes him. Of _course_ he does. Dean’s not sure he ever really doubted that, either. None of this has been a Sam-problem. Sam would like who-the-fuck-ever as long as it made Dean happy, and Cas is objectively great. Smart and perceptive and happy to call Dean out on his shit, while being all freaking adorable and _nice_. He cares.

“You met him for two fucking minutes,” Dean says, taking another slow breath, “You don’t know what you think of him.”

“You do,” Sam says. 

Sam is also too damn smart for his own good.

“He’s - not my _boyfriend_.”

He mangles the word on the way out, but honestly Dean’s just pleased he managed to say it _at all_. Even if it was the back end of a denial he can hardly stand behind, because it’s not like they haven’t been heading that way. He wouldn't - he wouldn't commit to that without detangling all the rest - but that doesn't mean that wasn't the trajectory of his whole thing.

“Okay,” Sam says, “Fine.”

“ _This_ is not a big deal.”

“Okay,” Sam says again.

“Jess,” Dean says, pinching his brow, “I’m -”

“ - he’s kind of hot,” Jess says, “Those eyes, right?”

Dean’s saved the indignity of his voice doing a good impression of that _squeaky_ thing that Charlie accused him of, by Cas returning with a tray of coffee. He pauses with a hand to Dean’s shoulder - and freaking _obviously_ he does, because they’ve been bestowing those kind of casual, physical touch on each other all the damn time - and it… it really _should_ be fine - and Dean maintains a very strong grip on his car keys.

“We’re out of pie,” Cas says, “Or I would have bought some. There are muffins, if you want.”

“You’re on your break, Cas, don’t worry about it,” Sam says, “Anyway, I’m pretty sure Dean’s been getting enough pie.”

“Watch your mouth, Sammy,” Dean says and _fucking finally_ his voice box is working while Cas is there. Awesome.“There’s isn’t such a thing as too much goddamn pie.”

“Tell that to your waistline.”

“Pain in my fucking ass,” Dean says, closing his hand around his coffee. Normal. He just needs to outwards act _normal_ for enough time that it’s not suspicious for him to run back to his kitchen.

Or to somewhere he didn’t accidentally come out, like his house. Or Alaska. 

“Hey, do _you_ cook the pie?” 

“Ah, no,” Cas says with a small smile, “I am entirely incompetent in the kitchen. Dean says that I am actually worse than you, Sam.”

Cas is so goddamn _sweet_ and he deserves way, way more than Dean’s bullshit. 

“Wow,” Jess puts in, “That is _low praise_.” 

“Although, Dean did insist I helped him cook breakfast this morning and no one actually died, so perhaps there’s pie in my culinary future.” 

Oh, fuck. 

Sam is looking at him like Dean’s being fucking adorable and _that_ is so, so not happening. This… if Sam has to know about it, then he needs it be _not a big deal_. A casual thing. A simple, non-descript-undefined thing. Not anything as callous as _an experiment_ , but not… permanent. 

Then Gabriel comes out of the kitchen singing fucking Asia, sliding over to their table with his usual shit eating grin. Dean's stomach drops because, goddamnit, exactly what he needs to prove how _none serious_ this is is Sam finding out that Dean’s all buddy-buddy with Cas’ fucking brother.

And Sam is just going to _love_ that, given Dean's held this whole thing ransom from him.

“It's the heeeeaaaat of the moment,” Gabriel sings, badly, grabbing a seat and straddling it rather than sitting down like a normal person. Dean's got no idea if Cas briefed him when he was in the kitchen, or if Gabriel does this with whoever his brother sits with for coffee. Both are plausible.

“Gabriel,” Cas says, throwing a look that’s clearly an apology towards Sam and Jess.“Shut up.” 

“It's annoying, right?” Gabriel says, offering Dean a grin that makes him feel physically ill. 

“Yes, you are. I've been telling you this since I learnt how to speak.”

“ _Twice this week_.” Gabriel says, “That's the number of times your freaking five thirty Asia alarm has woken me up, Deano. Twice. Change the tune, bro, or take my little brother over to _your_ place, where you live. Alone. With no one else.”

“Gabriel,” Cas says, “This is Dean's brother and his girlfriend. Sam and Jess. This is, unfortunately, my brother who runs this cafe, in theory.”

“Heard the words _on the house_ ,” Gabriel says brightly, “Set my spidey sense tingling.” 

“You can deduct it from the massive debt of gratitude you owe me,” Cas says, slipping into _comfortable_ , now, and maybe Cas actually asked Gabriel to come out here and act as a buffer. “But know that every time you _interrupt me_ , I hike up the interest.” 

It’s not like Dean was doing a damn thing to ease the guy’s nervousness about unexpectedly meeting Sam, who amounts to the entirety of Dean’s immediate family. _Plus_ Sam’s girlfriend, on a day when he was already feeling insecure and shitty about his job. _While_ Dean was wordlessly gaping and them all and throwing his car keys all over the place.

It figures he’d want Gabriel here.

“Asia. Five thirty. In the morning. On my day off.” Dean needs to _input_ into this shit show again. Manage another one of those word things. Maybe a whole goddamn sentence, but… Sam is watching Cas and Gabriel interact with growing understanding and it’s -

Cas is being himself. His snarky, quick-mouthed, hilarious self. There’s the side of Cas that he presents to people he doesn’t know very well, that’s a little awkward and stilted too, but that’s given way to _this_ Cas. Sam is going to _see Cas_ and that’s nothing short of terrifying. 

“Fine, interest and charges are frozen.”

“Quit dissing asia,” Dean begins, through his knotted up throat, “It’s -”

“ - _a classic_.” Both Sam and Cas sub in, and Dean is so fucked. 

So, so fucked.

And, _okay_ that’s the extent of his verbal abilities gone. 

“So this is the… little brother,” Gabriel says, goddamn _checking Sam out_ with a quirk of his eyebrows.

“If _you_ can qualify as a big brother,” Cas says mildly, grip on his coffee tight. Tense. “You’re the big brother?” Sam asks, leaning forwards to look at both of them. The kid’s fucking enjoying himself which is _not_ good news for Dean’s sanity.

“One of the many, Samuel,” Gabriel says, “There’s three more, plus a sister.”

“One against five?” Jess says, “Tough gig.”

“Anna is the best of all of us.”

“It’s true. Cassie here is my second vote.”

“Sam, which area of law are you thinking about joining? The other three brothers are lawyers,” Cas asks, turning his piercing gaze on Sam.

“Family, maybe.” 

“Ah,” Cas says, “Then they won’t be able to help. Michael and Raphael specialise in criminal prosecution. Lucifer does criminal defence.”

“Wait, Michael and Lucifer Milton? The twins who like to go up against each other in court -” “ - yes,” Castiel sighs, “That is one of their favourite things to do.”

“I saw one of their trials as an intern!” Sam says, turning to Jess with the familar geek-out expression all over his face. And _of course_ Sam has watched Cas’ brothers have a pissing match in court, and enjoyed it. Of _fucking course_ his brother is nerding out over all of this, while Dean is slowly dissolving in his anxiety.

Goddamn.

“You should see them over Christmas dinner,” Gabriel says, “Arguing over who cooked the better potatoes. Raphael plays judge. It’s all very entertaining.”

“You mean _exhausting_ ,” Cas counters and Cas _is not okay_ and Dean really needs to give the guy some indication that Dean’s okay with this whole thing, but he’s _not_ and he can’t seem to just fucking fake it.

“So, three lawyers…?” Jess begins.

“ - An artist, a business owner and me,” Cas says, “I prefer not to think of myself as a punchline.”

He should say _Cas is a kick ass wannabe writing who quit his soulless job because he realised he hated it_ , not let Cas be all self-deprecating about his freaking employment-status on the day Cas got all sad about it in his kitchen. He should reach out and touch his arm. Speak. Freaking well _do something_.

“Cassie used to be a very successful tax accountant before we quit to help me set up this place,” Gabriel fills in the gap. 

“By which you mean I was paid a large amount of money to find ways for companies to legitimately pay less tax,” Cas frowns.

“God, you were a douchebag.”

“Thank you, Gabriel your kind words mean so much to me.”

“Hey, I got you out of there.”

“I quit,” Cas deadpans, “You just picked me up when I had to hand back the keys to my company car.”

“What happened?” Jess asks, and she’s smiling. Sam’s smiling too. Everyone’s fucking _smiling_ and Dean is just --- 

Not equipped to handle this situation.

“I had a realisation that I was a closet-socialist and found the practice of large companies having the means to contribute less to the public purse morally abhorrent,” Cas says, “And that I detested everything the company stood for and my part in perpetuating tax inequality. I found a paper on political theory I wrote at college that argued for increasing corporation tax in the name of public good, and had a revelation that my life was a very bad joke.” Cas continues and, god, he’s fucking awesome. Most of that is so far over Dean’s head he doesn’t even know what to do with it, but this snarky little nerd is goddamn passionate. He thinks about crap. He’s brave. “It did pay well,” Cas acknowledges, taking another sip of his coffee, the intensity of his gaze suddenly directed at his cup. He blinks. “Family law is a very nobel decision, Sam.”

“Yeah, but —- That’s great,” Sam says, “Not everyone is willing to make sacrifices to be the person they want to be.”

And this time, Dean drops his fucking _coffee_.

Dean’s a honest to god fucking moron.

He’s covered in coffee and he’s a fucking moron. “Dean,” Cas says, handing him a goddamn napkin as Dean fumbles around trying to dab coffee out of his jeans with _all of them looking at him_ and, yep, that’s Dean _out_. He can’t do this. He should have run. He should’ve -- he never should have _done_ this -- he shouldn’t be in this not-relationship, he shouldn’t be _dating the guy who trash-talked his restaurant_ , he shouldn’t’ve lied to Sam, shouldn't've have kept up this stupid lie to Cas about his job, shouldn’t _have all these feelings_. 

“I need to get back to work.” 

_And you use work as an excuse to leave any situation you find uncomfortable._

Dean fucking sucks.

“Dean,” Sam says, frowning at him.

“It’s - I’m busy, Sam, I need to go,” Dean says, pocketing his stupid car keys and not looking at Castiel, because he can’t, “I - _later_.”

He’s out into the fresh air before anyone else can say a damn thing. It’s _hot_ because it’s goddamn July, but it’s still better than the clogged coffee-thick air in Trickster Cafe. He’s still not getting enough air into his lungs, but it’s something. He ran away and his whole goddamn life looks like it’s about to fall apart, but there’s _some air_ outside. 

“Dean, wait,” Cas says, coming out of the cafe behind him in a rush, apron tied around his waist. “Dean, I don't need you to call me your boyfriend yet and I didn't need to meet your brother.”

Cas is gorgeous and confusing as hell. 

“What?”

“That was too soon for you, and now you are covered in coffee,” Cas says, brow creased into _concern_.“You’re freaking out.”

_Freaking out_ is the understatement of the goddamn century and it’s not a surprise that Cas noticed, Dean didn’t expect him to walk out here and acknowledge it though. To his damn face. 

“Cas, I’m - I’m _sorry_ \- I can’t - ”

“ - _Dean_ ,” Cas implores, “I didn’t _ask_ you to do this. _I did not push for this_. I would like you to remember that.”

“I - what?”

“I don’t know why me meeting your brother is a brother is a big deal, but I’m … I am sorry it happened before you were ready.”

That is not what he was expecting Cas to say.

“You are?”

“Yes,” Cas says, very serious, “You have your reasons for this pace, Dean. Just - please don't run away because of this. I think that would be a great shame. I think there’s something _in_ this.”

“Okay,” Dean says, swallowing. Cas looks so serious and sad and it's so inexplicably sweet and what he needs that, he can't help it, damnit, and he leans forward to kiss him, warm and slow and _it makes him feel better_. He’s got coffee all over his goddamn pants and he just silently watched most of that conversation without managing to _speak_ and Cas is apologising to him that it happened before Dean’s ready (like hell does Cas owes anyone an apology for any of this) and it _helps_.

That’s the crux of this whole clusterfuck. Every time his head’s messed up version of logic muscles in, Cas looks at him or says something and all of it goes _quiet_. 

Dean curls a hand around Cas’ cheek and breathes.

“I'll call you later.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, dropping his hands as he watches Cas head back into the cafe, very aware of Sam's gaze on his face through the storefront.

*

Charlie finds him sat on the floor of his office with his back against the wall, bottle of whiskey Bobby bought him when he opened the place wedged between his knees, staring at the piece of paper he last drafted his autumn menu on.

“Oh - hey. I didn’t think you were back yet.”

“I’m _hiding_ ,” Dean says, shutting his eyes and swallowing back what feels like a very real threat that he’s going to throw up. His brother met Castiel _and_ Gabriel. He’s probably done enough math to know that they’ve spent at least three nights this week together (five, actually, but they do not need to talk about that out loud) and has concrete proof that Dean knows his goddamn brother, goes to visit Cas in his lunch break and has told Cas their whole goddamn life story. Sam knows that he’s lying about a whole load of other crap, though, with none of the context. Kevin knows a guy gave him a goddamn hickey. _Everyone_ knows a guy gave him a hickey. Cas… Cas is happy to go at _Dean’s_ pace. It’s all way, way too much. “This office is about the size of a closet, right?”

Dean’s phone buzzes a fresh text message from Sam. _Dean, Cas is without out a doubt the greatest person you’ve ever dated_ Sam types out, to go along with the five other messages to that effect. Basically, Sam is a fan of Cas. A really big fucking fan. Jury’s out on Dean. 

“You okay?”

“Freaking wonderful,” Dean mutters, without looking away from the wall, bringing the bottle to his lips for another swig. “Is Kevin…?”

“He’s on shift,”

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning further back so he can feel the solid wall against the back of his head. 

“How’s the autumn menu looking?”

“We’ve got that eggplant burger and fuck all.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, kicking Dean’s jacket out of the way to make room for her to sit down next to him, wedged between Dean and a filing cabinet. Charlie stretches out her legs and nudges him with her knee. Dean swallows.

Another message from Sam. 

_I don’t know why you’re lying to him about really weird stuff, Dean, but you need to stop_.

“Last time I designed a fucking autumn menu was for my first head chef,” Dean says, setting the bottle down to trace the recipe instructions he scribbled out when he was high on his first breakfast with Cas, with a flood of inspiration running through his veins. Sure as shit didn’t feel like a good day at the time, but it definitely didn’t suck.

“Rufus?”

“No,” Dean says, taking another pull from the bottle, “Alistair.” “He wasn’t listed on your references,” Charlie says. Their conversation seems slower the normal, like both of them are taking the time to pick their words. Dean’s brain short circuited a while back and Charlie’s probably trying to be supportive, but it’s… slow paced. Quiet. 

“What?” 

“Come on, I had to check you out.”

“You hacked my computer records?” Dean asks, with an almost smile that doesn't quite make it. He feels flat. Full of lead. “Dunno why I’m even surprised.”

“You were my boss and I _liked_ you, it was weird. Anyway, it’s not really hacking if your computer password is _impala_. And you call me the dork. So, I took a looksie at the big business proposal you put together for the bank. Anyway - Alistair.”

“Right,” Dean says, “Only person I’ve ever worked for douchey enough to have a goddamn autumn menu. Back in Lawrence.”

“Huh,” Charlie says, “But you were like, super young then.”

“Twenty two,” Dean says, “Not exactly a kid.”

“That’s _kid_ when were talking designing menus at a restaurant.”

“I - maybe. The point is I don’t even _want_ a goddamn seasonal menu. I just want to cook uncomplicated, good food. Don’t _want_ people walking away from this place like they’ve had some kind of transformational experience - they’re just supposed to be _well fed_.

“So scrap it.”

“I - Marv.”

“Dean, I don’t even know why you hired him.”

“I need him.”

“The restaurant was doing _well_.”

“It’s doing better now,” Dean says, “With the good reviews - except fucking _Cas_ , obviously - and we’re making more money. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, running a freaking businesses. People love it now.”

“Flip side; _you_ don’t love it and your staff aren’t exactly throwing a party whenever Marv shows up.”

“That’s _me_ , not Marv,” Dean says, “What kind of boss doesn’t even know someone imposed some dumbass rule about restaurant dating? I should be - in control. That’s what’s bugging the staff.”

“You’re the kind of boss who makes his sick employees chicken soup.”

“Charlie, I am not _good enough_ to do this on my own. I can’t do it. The only fucking thing I know how to do is _cook_ and it turns out I can’t do that right now, either, so -”

“ - _Dean_ , you were doing it on your own,” Charlie says, “You ran this place for a whole year without him.”

“I was fucking it up.” Dean counters, and his voice has picked up some of the dark shame that lines his insides, and it’s all bleeding out into the room. He’s not supposed to talk about this stuff. He’s not really supposed to acknowledge he thinks this stuff, but today isn’t Dean’s goddamn day.

It started well. Omelette. Kissing Cas in his kitchen. 

“You _weren’t_ ,” Charlie says, “And you weren’t _on your own_.”

“It’s done.”

“You write his paycheck, Dean.”

“Actually, he sorts out payroll,” Dean counters, shutting his eyes, forcing it all back down.“You came in here for a reason. Is service -?”

“Service prep is going fine,” Charlie says, sighing, “I - I don’t know that his is a good time to tell you this.”

“Charlie - talk to me.”

“You’re drinking alone in your poxy office.”

“Charlie.”

“So, totally separate point, you ever seen that show where they cure phobias of spiders by dropping tarantulas on you?”

It takes him a minute to decode the Charlie-ness of the whole sentence and another few seconds to filter through how apt that is for his whole goddamn day. He has been fucking _flooded_ with crap landing on him, and he feels very far from good about it.

“What happened?” Dean asks, turning to look at her with his jaw set. He’s taken enough hits today that he’s pretty sure he can’t take whatever, even if he doesn’t have to be happy about it. 

“Cas has a table booked for Thursday night.”

And despite the rest of the day, that’s enough for his lungs to cave in.

“You mean the Thursday in three days?” Dean asks, mouth dry. “Like, this Thursday?”

“Yep. I didn’t answer the phone because I was -”

“ - busy babying me through my fucking crisis?” Dean suggests, massaging his forehead. It makes sense. Cas was freaking out about work, so it's just logical that he'd have renewed his efforts to have some material for his damn blog. He needs to write. Dragging Dean's restaurant through the dirt is part of Cas' goddamn livelihood. “Can you -”

“- if you’re going to ask if I can cancel his booking, then no,” Charlie says, “Not even because you need to deal with this, but because he’s been trying to reserve a table for two weeks and he stopped believing my fake names ages ago. Business-talk: he almost has no choice but to give us a bad review if we keep delaying it _and_ this way, he won’t just try his chances, show up and walk right into you. I _have_ switched some shifts around, so that you’ve got a night off the day he’s in.” 

“Do I really have to do this?” Dean asks, grimly.

“Dean, it's all coming out in the wash anyway.”

“Its funny,” Dean says, without any trace of humour, “That's what I thought would happen with this bisexual bullcrap.”

“Hey, you said the word,” Charlie says, stopping smiling only when Dean sends her a look. “Real talk - it's this, or you tell him before Thursday.”

Fucking wonderful. 

“Sam drinks at Trickster Cafe,” Dean says, shutting his eyes again as he drinks another mouthful. It doesn’t burn on the way down his throat nearly as much as he’d like it to. “I knew that. Sam _took_ me there, so _obviously_ he was gonna fucking be there, today, with Jess. Gabriel.”

“Wait, Sam _met_ Cas?”

“Yep.”

Charlie watches him for a few moments, face twisted in sympathy.

“You want me to call Bess, see if she can cover your shift?”

“No,” Dean mutters, “I gotta - face the kitchen. It’ll be… worse, if I leave it. I’m gonna - give me five minutes. Just gotta pull out my game face.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, worrying her bottom lip, “You wanna talk about it, after?”

“Not even a little bit,” Dean says, finally standing up.

He’s got another message three messages from Sam.

_You need to hurry up and deal with your crap, or you’re going to cost yourself something that could be really good for you, Dean_

_And I WILL find out why you’re lying about all this stuff_

_Anyway, I think it’s great that you’re (kind of) letting yourself have something that could actually make you happy._

Dean turns off his phone, puts on his chef whites and his game face and cooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dontcha fear folks. the bigger blow up is still to come.


	9. Chapter 9

Usually, the moment that Cas settles on the other side of the bed is when the mixture of shame, fear and self-doubt rushes in. He has to take a minute to talk down the voice in his head that’s too fixated on _what the hell have you done_ to settle on _that was fucking awesome_ , even if sex-with-Cas is fucking awesome, all the time. _This_ was something else. The kind of thing that he used to not acknowledge that he wanted in his head (because there’s a difference being attracted to men and actively wanting them inside you, with their hands and their tongues and all the rest), that he’s still not sure he could say out loud. Cas is damn good at reading him, though. Damned good. Now, Dean’s sated and satisfied and straight up _happy_ and not even a little bit ashamed about it.

“Ask me again: food or sex.” Dean says, nudging Cas with his knee.

“Oh,” Cas says, smiling, “You mean you enjoyed that.”

“Don’t _mock_ me.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Cas says, twisting back into his personal space to kiss him, slow. The kind of kiss that he can feel in his goddamn toes. “What with the steady increase in volume.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, “Ask me.”

“Okay,” Cas says, propping himself up on his elbow, “Food or sex?”

“Gabriel’s pie.”

Cas’ mouth breaks out into a wide, easy smile that almost makes it to a laugh.

“You are incorrigible,” Cas says, and Dean reaches forward to press their mouths together for a second, just because he fucking can and he wants to. “Are you aware that you called me _Castiel_ , twice, just then. You never make it all the way to the end of my name.”

“Your goddamn _mouth_.”

“I wasn’t sure if you _remembered_ the rest of my name, such is your persistence in shortening it. Imagine my surprise.”

“You’re an asshole,” Dean grins, “And _that_ was fucking awesome sex.”

“It was,” Cas agrees, he’s pleasantly pink and ruffled naked and _goddamnit_ this is a good evening. It’s Wednesday, which means tomorrow his life is probably over, but at least tonight it’s freaking awesome.

“Hey Cas - food or sex?”

“Hmm,” Cas says, languidly stretching out in Dean’s freaking bed. Dean tracks the movement half unconsciously, drinking him in. “I _could_ go for something to eat right now.”

“You,” Dean says, “You’re really hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, throwing the sheets off his legs. “What d’you want?”

“My own personal naked chef. I could get used to this.”

“Don’t,” Dean throws back, “No way I’m cooking with my junk out. Anything could happen,” Dean continues, pulling on his jeans and frowning when he has to breathe in to do the damn things up, “Sam might have a point about all the damn pie.”

“Dean,” Cas says and _fuck_ does Dean love the way Cas frames his name. It’s all rough and just… he likes that guy that Cas is talking to when he says Dean’s name like that. “You are without a doubt one of the most attractive individuals I have ever seen, let alone have the immense pleasure of getting my ‘goddamn mouth’ on.” 

Dean’s face flushes, because _holy shit_.

Ho _ly_ shit.

“You are _exceptionally_ gorgeous and the only reason I don’t talk about it daily is because you have a complex about accepting praise. Eat as much pie as you so wish. Also, I thought we had banned jeans without underwear on the grounds of it being unreasonable sexy.”

And that’s...hot. And _a lot_.

“You’re in a mood,” Dean says, swallowing back the accepting praise complex he almost definitely has.

“I’m very pleased,” Cas says, “I have discovered your weakness. Now I know exactly what to do when you start retreating into your head, which is an excellent weapon to have in my arsenal.”

“If you’re talking about that thing with your tongue then -”

“ - then?”

“ - then,” Dean says, “Yeah - you’ve totally gotten me owned. If you’re coming to help me feed you, you gotta wash up first.”

“Hmm. The preschool food teacher mode is a buzzkill.”

“Uh, I know where our hands have been, dude.”

“Yes,” Cas says, looking incredibly self-satisfied, “You do.” 

“Jackass,” Dean says, “Come on. Not bringing you food in bed.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Tell that to someone who didn’t already make you dinner,” Dean says, “How do you feel about grilled cheese?”

“As long as I’m not in charge, favourably.” 

“Smug is a good look on you, _Castiel_.” 

“I am only smug because I earned it,” Cas returns, “You’re happy right now.”

“Damn right I am.”

“Then smugness is justified,” Cas says, like it’s _that simple_ , reclaiming his goddamn underwear (and not a single additional scrap of clothing) before following him into the kitchen.

“Dean,” Cas says, watching Dean slice cheese from the kitchen table. He’s lost a little of the easy joviality in his voice, now, slipping back into serious.“Your self consciousness about this - is that because I’m male?”

Dean’s stomach turns to lead.

He _definitely_ should have seen that freaking coming, given that whole disaster with Sam.

“Where do you get that from?” Dean asks, voice on edge, not turning away from the damn grilled cheese. He’s been a total fucking headcase for days. Charlie nearly threw him out of the kitchen twice, he nearly cut off his goddamn finger trying to act like he wasn’t freaking out when Kevin asked him about the special and he’s back to call-dodging Sam. _Tonight_ is the first fucking time he’s let his guard down and now… _Now_ Cas is coming at him asking for some freaking truths.

“Dean,” Cas says, “You threw coffee all over yourself. This is not to mention the flailing with the car keys.” 

Cas just used the word _’flailing’_ to describe him, which is just fucking perfect.

Flailing.

_Goddamn wonderful_. 

“I - Sam wasn’t supposed to be there, let alone _Jess_.”

“He said _not everyone is willing to make sacrifices to be the person they want to be_ and you knocked over your coffee.” Cas says, his voice more or less stripped of snark. The guy is _quoting Dean’s brother_ and not being polite enough to pretend his freaking flailing didn’t happen, but he’s not mocking him for it, which is — something. 

“You _said_ you were sorry we ran into your brother.”

“This isn’t an accusation,” Cas says, thrumming his fingers against his kitchen table, “I _am_ sorry. Gabriel thought it was immensely funny, but I _am_ sorry, I’m just trying to work you out.” 

Dean’s mouth is very dry. He continues to focus sixteen times more than he needs to on the grilled cheese, because _no way_ is he looking Cas in the eye right now. Not a goddamn chance. 

“You had me worked out on day two.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Dean, you remain profoundly confusing a great deal of the time.”

“Cas,”

“This is going wrong,” Cas sighs, “I have inadvertently killed your buzz. That wasn’t the plan - you seemed _light_ and it felt like a good time to ask, because - “ Dean risks looking at him. He’s looking down at the kitchen table, starting as his now stationary hands - “Because you picked me up at a bar with a frankly _awful_ bolshy line, but since then you -- you carry yourself with a confidence that you don't actually have, and sometimes it's as though you are battling with yourself to let yourself have what you want. You told your brother about me, but you were very discomfited when we met. You have trust issues.”

“About the _buzz_ you’re killing.” 

“Did - did something happen last time you dated a man?”

He should just come out and goddamn explain. Cas is halfway there, anyway. He’s _smart_ and he sees right through him, and this is his opening. This is the point he’s gonna look back to when all of this blows up in his goddamn face. _This_ , right here, is his moment. Right now. After an evening this damn good, Cas might even hear him out till the end. He might sit there with his head tilted and just _listen_.

_Sam thought you were a chick. He just assumed and I - didn’t correct him, because I’m closeted as hell, and I don’t… don’t do this. With dudes. Not ever, but you’re so goddamn exceptional that I just - couldn’t help it. And, by the way, you’re booked into to eat at my restaurant tomorrow and I’ve been reading your blog like a creepy ass stalker. Also, I really fucking like you. Please forgive me._. 

“I,” Dean says, his windpipe wrung out, “We weren't - dating.”

_Why can’t he just fucking talk?_

“But something happened, and now you find emotional intimacy with men more difficult.”

_Confirm or deny nothing, Winchester_.

“Is that a,” Dean says, shutting his mouth and chewing the words over in his head, “That a problem?” 

“Not a problem persay,” Cas says, voice very steady, “I just - I am concerned that I am a convenient way for you to work through those problems, rather than anything else.”

An honest to god fucking _laugh_ bubbles out of his throat, because Dean can’t control anything about his emotional reactions to freaking anything any more. 

Cas narrows his eyes at him.

“The concept of you being freaking convenient is hysterical. That wasn’t supposed to sound like a bad thing,” Dean says, "I, damnit. Liking you this much was a total fucking accident.”

“You like me,” 

_Also, I really fucking like you. Please forgive me._. 

“And some,” Dean says, slamming at least some of his bullshit away in a box in his head, “Look, I don't - I don't really date, period, Cas. I - I just work and hang out with Sam and I - I am _fine_ with my issues not being dealt with, but then you’re - smart and goddamn hilarious and so freaking hot and I just -”

Then Cas is right up in front of him, hands smoothing over his hips, settling on the curve of his ass. He looks _relieved_ and Dean -- he really, really needs to come clean about goddamn all of this. _He needs to talk_. Cas coming back to the restaurant _tomorrow_ and Dean could just come out and say all of it; this is his slot. He just did the feelings talk. They _almost_ talked about it, he just needs to -- push the words up out of his gullet and into the room. Just freaking say it.

_I’m in the closet and I run the restaurant you’re reviewing, but I really fucking like you and I freaked out about the rest of it. Please for the sake of all that is holy, focus on that last part._

“Perhaps I’m not _that_ hungry,” Cas says, then he’s pulling him closer to kiss him, open mouthed and freaking hot as hell, and Dean can feel the satisfaction of this whole damn evening creeping back, buzzing under his skin, to his toes. Goddamn amazing sex. Joking around afterwards. How _easily_ Cas navigates them back into safe conversation territory after he’s gotten his fill of reassurance. Dean deepens this kiss and gets lost in it; fingers tangled in hair, chest-to-chest, building momentum even though they literally fell out of bed fifteen minutes ago.

He pulls away when the damn grilled cheese is burnt enough that the scent of it is getting to the back of his throat. He hadn’t even _noticed_ , and then he’s turning off the heat and peeling cremated bread off his pan.

“Sonuvaa -”

“ - it’s easily done,” Cas puts in serenely, taking a slice of cheese from the chopping board.

“You did that on purpose,” Dean mutters, as he tips the whole lot into the trash. Cas shrugs his shoulders, not-quite-smiling.

*

“Two regular steak burgers, well done and they looked serious about it, no bread -”

“ - So, a goddamn steak?”

“Hey, Winchester, I don't let them through the door. I just seat up and take their order.”

“Charge them extra for being freaking stupid.”

“And, question,” Charlie says, leaning into the hatch, “If you designed someone's menu when you were twenty two, why would you leave them off your list of references.”

Dean sends her a hard look.

“And _here_ is your two top, two specials, two fries, two side salads, one onion rings, so _piss off_.”

“ - Dean, your brothers here, says it's important-”

“ - Tell him that just because Thursday are quiet doesn't mean he can show up here every damn week.”

“ - Not your messenger.”

“Breaking my heart, Dorothy.”

“I’m waiting on a chicken burger, Dean,” Dorothy says, expression not shifting for a damn second.

“ _Garth_ \- where am I on a chicken?”

“Two minutes.”

“Okay,” Dorothy says, “But I’m coming back here in two minutes.”

“Looking forward to it -”

“ - You're in a good mood, Dean,” Bess says, as she delivers his side of fries. It’s largely denial that’s taken him through most of the day, but he’s got this whole evening to progressively freak out about Cas being back at the restaurant. He can deal with that shit then. Right _now_ , he’s alive and cooking and Garth is finally back and well, so.

“Good night,” Dean throws back, wiping excess sauce off one of his plates.

“You look tired.”

“Yep. Like I said - damn good night,” Dean throws back.

Charlie’s back just in time to give him a smile like she’s proud of him, then she folds her arms on the other side of the hatch to quirk her eyebrows at her.

“Did he - fire you?”

“No,” Dean says, “Not important, drop it.”

“If it’s not _important_ , then why are you being all cagey -”

“- _Charlie_ , Dean chastises, “Okay, Garth - two steak burgers, no bread, don’t even ask. Well done. Four minutes?”

“Okay, man, four minutes. Heard.”

“So, Alistair -”

“ - was a manipulative asshole with a power-complex, who I did not need to owe. Moving on, Charlie -”

“Dean -”

“- hey, Dorothy, I haven’t had my two minutes yet, give the guy a chance. Garth. Chicken, stat, Dorothy’s getting antsy.”

“- your brother says, I quote, _I found the blog_.” 

That cuts through his good mood instantly, tipping over to paralysing panic in thirty seconds flat. 

By some goddamn miracle, he doesn’t drop the chicken. 

“I,” Dean begins, a feeling of intense nausea hitting him square in the face, “Tell him I’m done with lunch service at three and I’ve got the afternoon off. I’ll meet him at my apartment.”

He must look fucking terrible, because Dorothy just nods without any further comment about not passing on his messages.

*

Sam doesn't fuck around with his accusations.

“Your dating your food critic,” Sam says, shutting his book on the bar with a muffled thud, that fucking hoodie on again, sat in Dean's front room like he belongs there. He did, once, before he moved out to start his whole life with Jess a few blocks away. “And he doesn't know about it.”

Dean screwed up the rest of food service and he just barely got through it. Cas is due to sit down at his table at half seven PM and Dean’s pretty sure that this whole afternoon would be a sack of shit even _without_ Sam showing up to give him a hard time. 

And, Sam knows.

He freaking _knows_.

“Look, Sherlock-”

“ - how the hell did that even happen, Dean?” Sam asks, dumping his book on the coffee table. “It just - happened.” Dean says, winding his way to the coffee machine, Sam following him to the kitchen.

“You don't end up in relationships with people who trash talk your livelihood on the internet _without them knowing_ , Dean.” Sam bites out, as Dean turns on the coffee machine and tires to let the words wash over him rather than set up shop in his gut.

It’s not like Sam doesn’t have a fucking point, he just… really, didn’t want him to know about this crap.

Confirm or deny nothing, Winchester.

“Where did you even get this crap?”

“I _read_ the reviews of your restaurant, Dean.”

He probably could have seen that happening. Dean’s got a picture of both of Sam’s graduation on his fridge, but Sam has a framed copy of Dean’s opening menu up in his freaking hallway. He regularly volunteers to help Dean with this business crap and he’s eaten and privately reviewed every damn meal that’s ever graced his menu, twice, before Dean ever considered contacting a supplier for the bulk-goods. Sam drags him to farmer’s markets when he can’t get his cooking mojo up and he regularly shows up to give Dean feedback on how it feels front of house. Of fucking course his little brother is part of Charlie’s conspiracy to read every single review written about Dean’s restaurant. Obviously.

“Get a life, Sammy.”

“And you _told_ me some food blogger had written your burger was trying too hard, so I went looking.” 

“That was weeks ago.”

“I've been busy,” Sam says, as Dean gets himself a mug and pours himself a damn coffee, concentrating hard on not looking in Sam’s direction. “The thing is, Dean, he's right.”

That gets his attention. Dean turns around in his damn kitchen to stare at him, grip tightening on his coffee.

“He's _right_? Goddamnit, Sam, I've had you in there three time since Cas wrote that stuff, and now you think there's a problem with my food?” Dean demands. Sam’s not the least bit apologetic about it. He’s just _stood_ there trash-talking Dean’s goddamn restaurant. 

“It's not _you_ anymore, Dean. You've got this summer menu and those zucchini fries-”

“ - You order those every goddamn time.”

“I'm not saying I don't _like_ them, I’m saying you don't like them.”

“What does it fucking matter what I like?” Dean demands, fixing Sam with a hard look.

“It's _your_ restaurant -”

“ - It's a goddamn business, Sam, there's salad on the menu.”

“I'm not talking about _salad_.”

“What are you here to talk to me about? Are you roasting me over my damn menu or about Cas. Make up your mind and keep it short, Sam, I've got shit to do,” Dean bites out, stepping past him to spill out into the main room. Sam follows him, obviously, because he didn’t come here to tread around this softly-softly. 

“Why were you freaking out over Cas’ review, Dean?”

“He said my garlic bread was fucking closeted.”

“So you _slept with him_.. Way to go, Dean, I'm sure if you ever tell him he'll be fucking humiliated -” 

_It wasn’t like that_. 

He doesn’t want Cas to be _humiliated_.

“ - No, damn it, I slept with him before I knew about the dumbass review -”

“ - And then you just carried it on?”

“He said I couldn't cook!”

“No, he didn't, he said your Mac and cheese burger was trying too hard,” Sam counters, one of his traditional bitchfaces all over his damn face and it’s -- Sam is saying all this stuff like this was _easy_ , but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _get it_. 

“I know what the damn thing said.”

“It _resonated_ because it's exactly what you think about your food right now, Dean. You think your Mac and cheese burger is overcompensating and your garlic bread is closeted. This is about _you_ not dealing with your bullcrap. _That_ is why Cas’ is right.” 

“You giving me a hard time about dealing with my crap is _adding to my crap._ ”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this was happening?”

_If only it was that easy_.

“Because it's fucking ridiculous! I don't _know_ how I got to this goddamn point, Sam, things just kept coming at me.”

“You didn't know he was the guy who'd reviewed the restaurant?” 

“No,” Dean says, “Charlie reads his goddamn blog, Sam, she _called me_ the morning after and told me -”

“ - You invited him for breakfast, Dean.”

Cas’ _blog_ isn’t just the review of Dean’s restaurant, but it’s everything else. It’s Cas writing about Dean’s freaking omelette and that three course dinner and the grilled cheese and breakfasts in beds. Cas wraps it all up in freaking metaphors about boxed pasta and developing relationships. Cas’ feelings are bleeding all over it and it’s without a doubt the most concrete proof that Dean deserves to go to hell for not being able to deal with all of this. 

And Sam has read it.

Sam has mother-fucking _read it_.

“You read the whole fucking thing?”

“Yes.”

“That is an invasion of privacy”

“Right, does Cas know you read the whole thing too?” Sam demands and - okay - he has no defence for that. There _is_ no defence for him letting Cas’ feelings grow and change without spilling his guts. Sam sends raises his eyebrows and sends him a hard look that says quite clearly _so there_. Dean swallows back the desire to throw a damn tantrum and grinds his teeth together, instead. Fucking _Sam_.

“You said you met a bar.”

“We _did_ meet at a bar.”

“A gay bar?”

Dean’s chest sinks.

Here they go. Here they fucking go.

“Yes, a fucking gay bar. Jesus Christ, Sam.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “Since when have you gone to gay bars?”

“I told you I fuck guys, Sam, I don't really know why this is a surprise to you.”

“No, you didn't,” Sam counters, “You said you'd screw doctor sexy if you had the chance and never mentioned it again. You said you were _attracted_ to men, you didn't say anything about acting on it.”

And… he’s got no idea what to do with the concept that Sam thought he was _more_ closeted than he is right now, or maybe just stronger, depending on how he look at if. If he was better able to freaking _commit_ to being in the closet, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s the halfway-house situation that lead to this total shitshow in the first place. And - that was emotionally as far as he's gotten. Acknowledgement that he _wanted to,_ which is a lot different than acting on it.

“What am I? A fucking monk,” Dean snaps, “I sleep with men sometimes Sam, get over it.”

“There's nothing to _get over_ , I just don't know why you didn't mention it -”

“Because _I am not okay with it_ -” Dean hisses, stomach rolling, and rolling; free falling. “But I'd had a shitty day and I'd drank enough that it seemed like a good idea. I didn't even know his damn name till Charlie rang me about his review and I panicked and invited him for breakfast. It just _happened_. I'm not saying it was smart.”

Sam looks at him for a few long moments. He didn’t really mean to say that much. Doesn’t really want to talk about this _at all_ , but now there’s stuff spilling out of his lungs and his brother is looking at him like he’s two parts disappointed and two parts assessing.

“Did Charlie know?”

“Know what?” Dean asks, lungs vacuum packed.

“That you're bisexual Dean, or that you sleep with men, or however you're categorizing this in your head - did Charlie know?”

“She worked it out pretty damn quick when I said the guy was butt naked in my bed.”

“Why have you done this yourself, Dean?” Sam asks, “No one cares who the hell you want to sleep with, okay, or date. I don't care, Charlie doesn't care and you know what - Bobby wouldn't care, Ellen wouldn't care, your staff wouldn't care. And Dad -”

And _that_ is so far out of bounds, he doesn’t even have the words for it. 

“ - Okay, new rule. You don't bring up Dad, ever, and sure as hell not in the middle of this conversation.”

“If this is about what he would think -?”

“It's been five years, whatever the hell happened to Dad, it's not un-happening. He's gone, so - drop the line of enquiry _right now._ ”

“Dean.”

“I don't _care_ about his goddamn opinion-”

“Why the hell _do you_ care?”

And he… does not have an answer to that question. Not even for a hot second.

“What gives you the right to come into my damn home and tell me how to live my life?” Dean asks, setting down the coffee he hasn’t touched to openly glare at his self-righteous interfering little brother who’s not supposed to know about _any of this_. Sam is supposed to think he has his shit together. If he has to know that Dean is dating Castiel, then at least he shouldn’t know that’s he’s been goddamn torturing himself over it in his head. 

“Because this is so you, Dean. You sabotage every good thing that comes your way because you don't think that you deserve to be happy, and it's bullshit. The restaurant is going well, so you decide that you're not good enough to do, hire someone you hate and let it turn into a place you hate. You screw up what could be a perfectly good relationship by lying about really dumb stuff, just because you can't handle the idea of being in an actual, adult relationship. You work yourself to the bone rather than let yourself half a damn life. You turn something that everyone can accept about you into this dark personal secret so you can keep feeding you self shame. I _want_ you to be happy. Why don't you want that for you?”

“Every single fucking thing I have done in my life has been for your good, Sam, so don't go talking to me like that -”

“ - Don't _put that_ on me, Dean. I refuse to let you make me the only thing that I will make you happy. It's not fair and, for the record Dean, you don't _stop_ being ashamed of being attracted to men by only sleeping with nameless guys that you pick in bars, while drunk. That fuels your own stupid belief that how you feel is wrong in the first place. You stop being ashamed of something by bringing out into the light, looking at it at all angles and seeing it for what it really is - which is _fine_ by the way. You having feelings for Cas doesn't mean anything about who you are as a person other than the fact that you are a person, with feelings. It happens. Tell him the truth.”

_Cas, hear me out. Don’t go to that restaurant tonight. I’ve gotta talk to you about what’s going on, just, please hearl me out._

“I _can’t_ , Sam.”

“Why?” Sam asks, and that’s just a question. Sam _wants_ to know. He just wants to know what the hell is going on in Dean’s head. Honestly, Dean would like to fucking know what the hell is going on in his head, too, but no one has shown up so far to make any of this make sense. He doesn’t _know_ how any of this happened. His mouth has been running off of it’s own accord for goddamn ages and his _brain_ has been whiting out with sheer panic at least twice a day.

Dean swallows. 

He _can’t_.

“Sam, fucking _drop it_ okay. I’m dealing with it,” Dean says, forcing himself back into motion. Throwing himself down on his sofa like he doesn’t give a damn whether Sam is having this conversation with him or not. Reclaims his coffee and stares resolutely in the other direction. 

“You’re _not_ , Dean, that’s the point.”

“That’s none of your goddamn business Sam.”

“And if my opinion matters _at all_ , I think Cas might understand if you just talk to him, instead of letting all this fester.”

“It doesn't,” Dean says grimly, “Your opinion on _this_ doesn't matter to me, at all, so - leave me the hell alone.”

“Fine,” Sam bites out, folding his arms, “Use being an jerk as a defence mechanism. Call me when it explodes in your face, Dean.”

His apartment is very, very quiet after Sam slams the door behind him. 

*

“So,” Charlie says, stood in the doorway of his apartment with a bottle tequila, a bottle of blue premade cocktail and a damn boxset under her arm, “Take out, sleepover, braid each other's hair?”

Dean blinks at her. He’d been expecting _Sam_ for round two, not freaking Charlie, and he can’t deny that it’s a relief. He hasn’t got another fight in him. Not when Cas is due to be sat at a table in his restaurant in _thirty minutes_ and Dean has been staring at his cell phone debating texting him a string of confessions since around half an hour after Sam left.

_Cas. There’s some stuff I need to tell you when you’re done reviewing that restaurant. Whatever goes down - call me._

“Don't I pay you to run my front of house?” Dean asks, stepping back away from the door to allow Charlie to step into his front room.

“You, sir, need company,” Charlie continues, shutting his front door behind her, “And given I am the only person who _knows_ about your slow mission of digging yourself into the world's biggest hole, I'm your gal. Anyway, you told Cas about your kick ass lesbian best friend Charlie who you employ, so let's not give him any more clues. Dorothy's on it. I ordered pizza.”

“I'm not drinking that,” Dean grouses, nodding at the blue stuff.

“Okay, skipping straight to the tequila,” Charlie shrugs, heading to the kitchen and helping herself to the shot glasses he has no idea why he owns. Definitely a relic from before hangovers lasted for days.

“You trying to get me drunk?” Dean asks, as she fills the damn short glass to the brim and presses it into his hand. Cas is probably on his way to Dean’s goddamn restaurant, ready to annihilate Dean’s cooking all over the goddamn internet. 

“Yep,” Charlie says, “We, Dean, are drinking until you're able to talk about your feelings and are getting to the bottom of this clusterfuck. You got limes?”

“No,”

“Dude, you’re supposed to be a _chef_.”

“Yeah, Charlie, and I have limes in my _actual_ kitchen. At work. Where we both work.”

“Lemons? Oranges? Some kind of citirusy goodness?”

“Not even close,” Dean says, “I’ve got _salt_.”

“Nah,” Charlie says, “Salt without lime is worse than straight tequila. Bottoms up, Winchester.”

Dean tips it down his throat and swallows. It tastes like a bad hangover he had three years ago and it’s syrupy and thick and is slides down his throat. He really fucking hates tequila, but - okay.

Drinking. Fine.

Better than sitting here thinking all the damn night. 

“Give me your phone.”

“Uh, no way.”

“You really think you can be trusted with that?” 

She is not wrong.

“Two minutes,” Dean says, pulling out his phone and texting _being supplied with copious amounts of alcohol and a box set. Charlie is confiscating my phone for freaking friend time. Call you tomorrow_ to Cas, waiting for a good natured _enjoy your evening_ to come back in before he hands the phone to Charlie.

“What's in the box, Charlie?”

“Game of thrones, bitches,” Charlie says, “To get you in the sharing is caring mood.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, setting his glass down next to the bottle and nodding at her to refill it. “Drink every time someone dies?”

Charlie sends him a wide smile as she unscrews the bottle of tequila for a second time.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“I have beer, you know, instead of that weird blue crap.”

“Yep, but this is more reminisce of the underage drinking experience which, FYI is when this should have happened if I'd known you back then. No way would we have gotten you past twenty five without coming out to at least _me_.”

“You wouldn't have any idea, if I hadn't told you.”

“Okay, I will cop to being slow on the uptake,” Charlie says, “But you've had _time_ to build on the self policing and denial. If I'd known you in high school -”

“-so you _didn’t_ know?” Dean asks, more because he _wants_ to know than because he actually believes it. If they’re gonna drink a shit tonne and talk about it, they might as well freaking well do it, and he did… wonder. Charlie has a pretty good read on this kind of things, normally, but he would have figured that she’d have mentioned something. Organised a tequila-and-girl-talk a long time ago.

He also really wants to know how he’d feel about the answer.

Charlie passes him another shot glass and leans against the fridge.

“You got kind of flustered when you interviewed that chef who flirted with you, once, so I had you marked down as a _maybe_.”

_Not good_ is the answer to how he’d feel. 

Wonderful.

“Drink, Dean,” Charlie says, “It will help.”

Dean downs the second shot.

“That is an interesting theory.”

“Hello, you need your inhibitions lowered stat, nay, annihilated. We need to make with your inhibitions like you're a stark and it's the red wedding.”

“Put that episode on first,” Dean says, allowing Charlie to refill his glass.

“How did it go with Sam?”

“Buy me a drink first,” Dean says, “By which I mean, crappy.”

“Does it feel a tiny bit good to not have to hide stuff from him anymore?” Charlie asks, nudging with his arm as she pours herself of electric blue chemical-crap, taking a sip of it experimentally.

“Uh, no,” Dean says, which is an easy truth. His instinct of _protect Sam_ never quite left and apparently it stretches to protecting Sam’s to Dean’s impressive stocks of bullshit. “I've been lying to Sam about something since he was in kindergarten. I feel freaking naked.” 

“You know what helps with that?” Charlie smiles, “Blue alcohol.”

“Whatever,” Dean says, “Line em up.” 

Drunk feels pretty good about now.

“New rule: drink when anyone dies _and_ for any superfluous nudity.”

“Why the fuck not,” Dean says, glancing up at the knock on the door, “Didn't like my liver anyway. That'll be the pizza.”

“I haven't paid - FYI.”

“Got it,” Dean mutters with an eye roll. By the time he's back with the pizza, Charlie's set up their drinks on the coffee table and the game of thrones theme tune is playing, which is good. Charlie is good. The best damn friend ever, actually, and he’s a couple of shots away from feeling better about this whole shit storm of a day. Tequila, game of thrones, the stuffed-crust meat feast that Charlie ordered from his favourite pizza joint.

That, he can do.

Cas is probably minutes away from sitting down to order, but he can eat a pizza and get shit-faced. 

“So,” Charlie says, when she’s halfway through her fourth slice of pizza, the body count has risen significantly and the familiar alcohol-looseness has settled into his limbs. “You've _never_ had this with a guy before. Warm and fuzzies. It's always just been… Sex.”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, pouring herself some of the blue cocktail of death, “So, if it never happened before, why were they rules?”

“What?”

“If you never liked anyone, why did you make it unofficial policy that you don't date guy's?”

“Charlie.”

“I don't have an official policy of not dating dudes, it just doesn't happen to me.”

Dean picks up another slice of pizza for something to do with his hands. Charlie is way too logical for his own damn good. Logic hasn’t been running the show in his head for a long ass time and he’s not sure how applying logic to it _now_ is gonna help any. The denial has been a pretty damn helpful instrument in letting any of this stuff happen. If he'd been honest-to-god _honest_ with himself, he'd never have gotten out of the gate. Cas' number would have been out with the trash weeks ago.

“Charlie, I decided a long ass time ago what the deal was, okay?” 

“What happened before that decision?”

“You haven't quite drowned my inhibitions in tequila yet, Bradbury, so no dice.”

“Another shot, Winchester,” Charlie says, tipping more tequila into his glass, a little of it sloshing over the edge onto the coffee table. Charlie's usually a little smoother, so the alcohol has gone to _someone's_ head, at least. Dean probably wouldn't plead sobriety right now, but he figured drinking enough would make him feel _better_ and that sure as hell has not happened. “Did your dad find out?” Dean balks. “Okay, no for John Winchester finding out, but yes for daddy issues.”

“Like that's a secret,” Dean mutters, “Wrong line of enquiry.”

“But - you don't think he'd have liked it.”

“Didn't like a whole lot of anything I did,” Dean says, throat raw as he tips back another shot. Number four, he’s pretty sure, and half a glass of blue-crap. He’s hoping he’s not too far away from not caring about any of this anymore. Drinking until none of these feels like it’s suffocating him sounds fucking swell. “Spent most of his damn life looking for things to ride me about, but - no.”

“What's not to love?”

Dean runs a thumb over the edge of the tequila glass. He wonders, idly, what Cas has ordered at the restaurant. Hopefully, he stayed clear of the goddamn zucchini fries and settles on one of those dishes Dean actually likes. Not the garlic bread. The steak burger, maybe. 

“Sam and Dad didn't get along - I was the peace maker, so it was my job to stop Sam going to Stanford, but instead I upped and followed him. To cook which, in the John Winchester book of philosophy, is a damn waste of time - but. He left. It's done.”

“He left, after _you_ moved here.”

“Right,” Dean says, a little bitter.

“Why did you move?”

“What?” Dean asks, looking up from his glass to stare at her. They both wind up sat on the floor with their back to the sofa to be closer to the drinks and the pizza. She's folded her knees up in the gap between sofa and coffee-table, vibrant blue drink balanced on her lap. He's _more_ than lucky to have Charlie freaking Bradbury babying him through this crap, even if she's picking some weird lines of enquiry to follow up.

“We're warming up to the big closet question,” Charlie says, through a slice of pizza. “Context. You play your cards pretty close to your chest, Dean, just trying to work you out.”

“Huh,” Dean says, mouth pulling into a frown, “You’re not the first person who’s said that to me this week.” Charlie raises an eyebrow at him. “Cas.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Charlie says, “So - you moved. Because?”

“Charlie,”

“Wouldn’t push if you weren’t being cagey.” 

“I- I missed Sam.”

“Uh uh, Dean, not the full story -”

“Why don't you bleed out your soul all over my apartment instead?”

“Because you're the one in crisis mode.” 

“Was fucking sick of Lawrence. My Dad. Work.”

“Your asshole boss?” Charlie suggests, eyes fixed on him carefully enough that it’s clear that she can see right fucking through him. It figures. Charlie’s a goddamn genius, which is fine. Charlie knowing about his bullshit is a lot easier to take than anyone else burrowing into his personal baggage. Cas and Sam are a different matter, but Charlie is surprisingly... non-intimidating when it comes to a big dose of the truth. 

_You stop being ashamed of something by bringing out into the light, looking at it at all angles and seeing it for what it really is - which is _fine_ by the way. _

He hopes Dorothy gave Cas one of the good tables, rather than one of the cramped little booth Marv convinced him would fit, to maximise the number of bums-in-seats and their lunch time service profits. 

“Right,” Dean says, “So I figured - fuck it - and followed Sam.”

“Before Castiel, have you had any repeated sexual encounters with a guy?”

“Yes,” Dean says, staring down his blue cocktail. It _tastes_ blue, which is not a thing that anything alcoholic should taste like, ever.

“But it was still - just sex?”

“Yes,” Dean says.

“For how long?”

“Charlie,”

“I _only push where it hurts_ ,” Charlie declares, leaning forwards, “Drink, Dean, and tell me all your secrets. How long?”

“I - couple of months.” 

“Why did it end?” 

“I moved here,” Dean says, petulant. “It was a bad idea, Charlie, and I didn't go there again.”

“Why?” Charlie asks, “Come on, Dean. Give me something. Why? Why then?”

“No,” Dean says, voice flat, gaze shifting onto the screen. “Sam - Sam hates me. _Cas_ is gonna hate me. He _should_ hate me. Frankly, got no idea why the hell you’re here - listening to this crap.” 

Charlie offers him a smile that doesn't really help and leans forward to nudge him with her arm. “Do _you_ hate you?” She asks, a lock of her red hair falling into her face. And _that's_ the question that Sam would poke around but never actually ask, that might just explain every damn thing about all the crap he's pulled to Cas.

_About that accepting praise complex, Cas. Add in a complex about things going well, daddy issues, masculinity issues and fucking huge gay panic and you've got your diagnosis for what happened here. I'm really goddamn sorry and I do - I do like you. Tangled-freaking-web, Cas._

“Depends on the day of the week,” Dean says, leaning back against the sofa with his head swimming slightly, “Top me up with the blue crap, Bradbury.”

He loses track of the show another shot later, and of the conversation another two after that.

He wakes up with the hangover to end all hangovers, Charlie asleep on his sofa and three missed phone calls from Castiel. He gets his voicemail when he calls back and a text message an hour later saying that he’s going to LA to see his sister and will be back in a couple of days.

Dean throws up for three hours and tries like hell not to think the worst.


	10. Chapter 10

“ - I need _three_ double stacks, Garth, not two. Fix it and, Charlie, I _told you_ \- he’s gone to LA to visit his sister.”

“He just,” Charlie says, arranging her six top on her tray, “ _Spontaneously_ took off.”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Bess - hold the damn fries, I need your boyfriend to get me _three_ double stacks before I want anything to do with them. Charlie - it’s _fine_. He was having a hard time with the work stuff. He just… probably wanted to hang out with his family. His other family.”

“ _Right_ after coming here?”

“Coincidence - take the damn food, Charlie,” Dean says, “Garth. _Talk_ to me.”

“Five minutes, Chef.”

“Shave that down to four and I won’t kick your ass.”

“Roger that.”

“I just find it suspicious that he’d _take off_ right after - that thing- you know.”

“Charlie, table six. We can resume this conversation later.” 

“You said he called you?”

“Table _six_ Charlie.”

“Okay -- boss mode, got it,” Charlie says, taking the orders and spilling out into his front of house. Dean swallows and tries to remind himself that it’s a _good thing_ that they’re talking about his goddamn boy-drama, openly, in front of his staff. Who all know that he has freaking _boy drama_ , because he ousted himself in the middle of a treatise about making his not-boyfriend’s day better by visiting him in the middle of his working day. Dean is _out_ , at least within the confines of this building. There’s no backtracking. He can’t un-bang that gong. So, fine. Least of his problems right now.

Cas can’t _know_. Maybe there was the three missed calls and the sudden trip, but that could be some family emergency thing. It could be Cas getting down about work again. He hasn’t posted his second review of Dean’s restaurant yet, so maybe he got freaked out about the lack of steady income again. Last time he posted it the next _night_ and now it’s been three whole days. He hasn’t heard a lot from Cas, maybe, but that’s because he’s with Anna. It’s not -

Cas doesn’t know.

He _can’t_ , because Dean’s not ready for all of this to blow up in his face yet. He’s _not fucking ready_. He needs - just a little more time. He’s dug himself into more of a pit than a goddamn hole, but he’s pretty sure that he just needs another week, or two, to work out how to pull himself out of it before someone starts piling dirt on top of him. Cas can’t _know_ , because Dean’s got no fucking idea what would happen if Cas challenged him about this face-to-face, except that his track record recently has been fantastically shitty. 

If Cas knew, then he’d show up in Dean’s apartment all pissed off and yelling and Dean would just gape at him like he’d forgotten how the goddamn english language worked, blurting out _I just panicked_ over and over until Cas would slam the door in his face. And that would be it. Finito. Or maybe he’d just stop calling and texting him all together. Just _cut him out_ without even giving the chance for Dean to flail around trying to find some semblance of an explanation. 

No. Cas is being cagey for other _external_ reasons than Dean Winchester and that’s what he’s going to believe until he has stone cold proof otherwise. 

“- triple double stacks, Dean,” Garth says, setting up the down with a clink that brings him back into focus. Right. Lunch. Feeding people, cooking things; his goddamn business. “A _six-stack_ , if you will.” 

“And _now_ I want fries, garnish and to go back in time before Garth made that damn joke.”

“Please,” Charlie says, “ _You_ made that joke persistently for months.”

“I - shut up,” Dean says, “Table six happy?”

“What do you take me for, Winchester?” Charlie says, “Dean, maybe -” 

“- we should do coffee in the split shift break,” Dean declares, largely to shut her the hell up, not due to any actual desire to have coffee. Still, he owes Charlie a lot. Part of what he owes her right now is a lingering nausea whenever he thinks about tequila and or consuming anything blue, even three whole days after the fact, but he owes her a lot fucking more than that. Her patience with his persistent freak-out has been nothing short of extraordinary and -- he probably needs to do more than buy her a damn coffee at least twice a week for the rest of their lives. 

Still, he’ll start with coffee.

*

If Castiel’s first foray into reviewing Dean’s restaurant was an amusing and mild critique that happened to expose some of Dean’s crap, the second review is a total annihilation of his character. It’s… _brutal_. It’s every bad thing Dean’s ever thought about himself alone in the middle of the night, crystalised and turned into a metaphor about his choice of burger buns. It’s fucking _terrible_ and Dean nearly shuts his laptop with a click three times before he’s finished it. 

His lamb burger has _promise that gives away to stark disappointment_ , his zucchini fries (and fuck you, Sam, for _that_ extra layer of paranoia about that) are _insecure, petty and lacking in substance_. His deconstructed sundae - which he’ll acknowledge openly _is_ a sack of shit - is _clearly at the beginning of a breakdown, with an unpleasant after taste of regret that persists like a bad hangover_. There’s a snarky comment about his goddamn wine list ( _assembled by someone who would probably have been better placed to compose a beer list_ ), his decour and the squashed booth he apparently wound up sat in.

Dean’s read about fifty percent of everything on Cas’ goddamn blog, and the guy has never, ever been plain fucking _mean_ before. 

He knows. He _must_ know. There’s no freaking way that Cas wrote _that_ without being provoked into it, and Dean’s pretty goddamn sure that the shit Dean pulled is adequate provocation. 

The guy hasn’t actually _spoken_ to him since his spontaneous trip to LA to visit Anna and the smattering of messages Dean has received have been very… polite. Cas has never been fucking _polite_ to him, so. He knows. Cas _knows_ and instead of showing up at his apartment to yell at him, he’s taken out every inch of his frustration on Dean’s restaurant. 

He’s still staring at the picture of his damn lamb burger on Cas’ fucking blog (that looks _fine_ by the way), when Charlie calls him.

“About my theory that he knows,” Charlie says, in lieu of hello, which means he’s probably not the only person who now stealth subscribes to Cas’ goddamn blog, so that he gets a email every time he posts something. Cas uploaded the damn thing half an hour ago and -- 

Dean is _so_ not cut out to deal with this shit. 

He can’t do it.

He’s not _ready_. 

“He doesn’t,” Dean says, shutting his laptop shut before he rereads the _promise that gives away to stark disappointment_ for the fifteenth time. Obviously, Cas knows, but that’s still… conjecture. He hasn’t actually come out and said it. _Maybe_ he’s trying to make some writing progress by unleashing his inner asshole, carving himself out a niche position as hyper-critical. _Maybe_ Dean’s food just really sucks that bad. 

“Dean.”

“He - _he’s having a bad day_.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” 

“Charlie,”

“ _Dean_ , you need to call him right now and try and explain.”

“Family crisis,” Dean sputters out. His legs feel about as useless as his deconstructed sundae as he stands up to pace around his kitchen, fear twisting round in his gut. Cas, _Castiel_ , wrote that his Zucchini fries showed _clear signs of sublimation_ ; Dean had to freaking look it up before he know what the ever loving fuck that meant to work out if Cas was insulting him. It was pretty damn accurate, too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything; Cas managed to get closeted and overcompensating long before he actually knew _Dean_. 

“ _Relationship_ crisis,” Charlie corrects.

He can’t deal with that. He can’t _do_ it. He can’t explain. He doesn’t have the words and he doesn’t have a goddamn clue how any of this happened or how he’s supposed to fix any of it. Maybe he’s got an accidental foot out of the closet and Sam _knows_ , but that doesn’t mean he’s in any way ready for a confrontation. 

Nope. Not happening. No fucking way.

“Why would he suddenly work it out?” Dean asks, “It’s not like my goddamn face is on the wall, Charlie, if he hadn’t put the pieces together already _why would he do it now?_ That’s just - that’s _not_ what’s happening.”

“Just because you’re _not ready_ for something, doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Sometimes things _happen_ and you have to deal with it.”

“I - he would have _told_ me if he knew. He hasn’t broken it off or showed up here yelling and he would have -- he would have _done_ something.”

“Like call you out for being _dishonest and afraid_ on his blog? Look, Winchester, I’m team _whatever makes you happy_ , always, but - you have to deal with some stuff sometime.”

He doesn’t have capacity for _this_. 

He’s been trying so goddamn hard for years to push it all down and squash it, because he’s not supposed to pull this kind of crap. This isn’t supposed to be _who he is_. He can justifying cooking for a living because he’s good enough at it to make money and he can make people happy, but _this_ \-- this isn’t good for anyone but Dean, and that - 

Cas wrote that Dean is disappointing, dishonest, afraid, closeted, lacking in substance and overcompensating. He wrote that he _tries to hard_ and that he is _repressed_. All of those things are true and they’re true because he’s tried so goddamn hard to cover up the raw, shitty truth of _Dean Winchester_ , to be what the world actually goddamn wanted of him. No one wants to know the crap that goes on in his head. It wasn't _important_ , so he wrapped it all up in bravado and bad jokes and doing exactly what was expected of him.

Things were so damn hard, he just wanted to make them easier. _Yessirs_ and _okay Dad_ and whatever made Sam happy. Whatever _didn’t rock the goddamn boat_. He’s not supposed to make things _complicated_. He’s not supposed to _want_ anything else.

Head down, don’t cause any goddamn trouble, look after your brother. 

He wasn’t supposed to fuck everything up so goddamn badly. 

_None of this was supposed to happen_.

“I,” Dean says, pausing to face down the pictures stuck on his fridge. Sam graduating, three times over: high school, his undergrad, freaking law school. Dean's the one in all of them. Bobby in the last two. Jess showing up at the end. They all _just want him to be happy_. He gets that, logically. In his head, even if his goddamn soul struggles with the concept. “I was sleeping with Alistair.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, gentle, “I worked that out.”

'I - fuck,” Dean says, stomach plummeting. The conversation after the sixth shot of tequila is gone out of his head. He hadn’t gotten black out drunk for an age, but even _then_ he’s generally pretty good at keeping stuff buried. Maybe every goddamn thing he tried to keep under wraps has been spilling out from the seams of his constructed persona lately, but _still_.“ What did I tell you?”

“Please, I'm a genius,” Charlie says, “It was more what you didn't say. You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Dean says, “That's not why I'm in the goddamn closet - I, they’re unrelated points. That’s not… that’s not _why_.” 

“But no one knew about it?”

“No,” Dean says, “but that was the point, I didn't _want_ anyone to know, which is why it seemed like - a good idea - because he was even more invested in it being a damn secret than me.” 

“Because he was your boss?”

“Because I was twenty fucking two and he was… not twenty-two.”

“How… _not_ twenty two?”

And they are _so_ not going there.

“Charlie, it doesn't matter, not really. I thought I knew what I was getting into, but I really didn't have a fucking clue, so, and it - I guess it was in his best interest to make me think the only reason he let me do so much at the restaurant was because he wanted to get some, and - I don't know.”

“What a sleazeball.”

“Right,” Dean says, “Fucking asshole.”

“Is that why you left Lawrence?” Charlie asks, as Dean resumes pacing round his kitchen. He was half way through debating what he was going to cook before he got the email about Cas’ blog post, but now it feels moderately likely that he’ll never be hungry again. He’s just _empty_. 

“No, I just - needed everything to be different than it was. Needed _me_ to be different. It was… everything got so damn messed up, Charlie, cause working there - that was what made me realise that I wanted to cook. That I was _good_ at it, but - he was a shitty boss even without the other bullcrap, and my Dad was pretty damn clear on cooking, at all, being a waste of time. He kept giving me shit about Sam and I just - needed out. Needed _away_.”

“It’s good that you left,”

“If I wasn’t such a _fuck up_ , I wouldn’t have had to. Sam didn’t exactly goddamn invite me -”

“ - right, because Sam doesn’t _love_ having you here.”

“The whole reason he _went_ to Stanford was to get the hell away from me and prove that was he all independent.”

“Uhm. Didn’t he move in with you three months after you moved here?” Charlie asks, “That doesn’t _sound_ like he didn’t want you here -”

“ - because Dad took off, it wasn’t to do with me -”

“ - _Dean_ , you’ve twisted all of this in your head,” Charlie implores, “Sam was _glad_ you moved.”

“Because it meant I wasn’t listening to Dad’s crap. He was happy because it meant Sam _won_ their little pissing match, it didn’t -- _I screwed it all up_.”

“Dude, I can’t even reason with you right now, but you’re so damn convinced that you screwed up that now you’re _actually_ screwed up, and the screw-up-inception is too much.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, knuckles clenched on the kitchen counter, “I owe a guy who fucked me to make himself feel powerful my _career_ and I know for a goddamn fact that my Dad hated me cooking and my Mom would have thought was a waste of time. Me trying to get myself _away_ tore apart my whole damn family and now I’m just - flailing.” 

“Your Dad told you your Mom thought cooking was a waste of time? Dick fucking move, sir,” Charlie counters, “John Winchester is an a-hole.” 

“ _Charlie_.”

“Basically, you’ve internalised your Dad taking everything wrong in his life out on _you_ and some sleaze ball _creep_ chef, and decided that the crap they’ve said about you was true. Well, it’s not, Dean. That’s all _bullcrap_.”

“All I have done for weeks is _fuck up_.”

“So, okay, I’m not going to defend the last six weeks of your life, _but_ , holy shit, Winchester. How have you been _walking and talking_ with all that suppressed self-hatred? _Something_ was going to give.”

“He,” Dean begins, swallowing, “He can’t _know_.”

“Okay,” Charlie sighs, “Fine. He doesn’t know. Just - don’t internalise Cas’ voice, too, Dean. He was upset.” 

“Family crisis,” Dean mutters, eyes slammed shut in his kitchen.

“Family crisis,” Charlie repeats, her voice coloured with resignation.

“I - I need to go,” Dean says, jaw clenched, “I - gotta eat. I gotta _think_.”

It’s pretty damn clear that Charlie wants them to keep digging into his feelings, but she lets him rush her off the phone after a couple more attempts to tell him that Dean’s wants and dreams and the rest of that hallmark crap are worth something, and then he’s alone. 

The crushing silence of his apartment presses in on him.

He reads Cas’ blog again.

_Insecure, disappointing, closeted._

He stares at the content of his fridge for a long time before he slams the door shut and sits.

He calls Sam.

Sometimes talking to his dumbass, stupid-haired little brother is the only thing that can cut through the line of self-loathing that sits in his gut, because the fact that Sam is happy and educated and about to become a kick-ass lawyer means that he didn’t screw up everything. Sam’s success is down to _Sam_ , but the fact that his little brother cheerleaders his restaurant and will whisper hard truths about not caring that Dean likes men means that it could be much worse. Sam is _pissed_ at him, but not pissed enough that he doesn’t pick up the call immediately. 

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice a hell of a lot softer than the less time he spoke. Sam’s let him stew in his own juices since he slammed the door in his face, and it’s damned good to hear his voice .“Hey.”

“It’s because I _like_ that other guy he writes about,” Dean says. There’s a lump in his throat, but he’s forming actual words, so he’s gonna count it as a win. “The second I tell him everything, I kill that guy off. That’s why I _can’t_.” 

Sam sighs deeply. He’s quiet for a few long moments. 

“Dean, I know you and, for the record, the guy that taught Cas how to make a omelette because he was having a bad day _is_ the big brother who raised me,” Sam says, and it’s almost tempting to actually _believes it_ , because his kid brother is usually right. Usually right about _Dean_. He’ll call him out on his crap eight days of the week. “The other one is my big brother's macho posturing to try and drown out his crippling insecurity with ego. They're both you. I look up to and care about _both_ of them, even if one of them is an idiot.”

“I - thanks,”

“And _anyone_ worthy of your loyalty and affection should know that.”

Dean blinks down at his table and tries not to bleed anymore emotions everywhere.

“You’re a good kid, Sammy.” 

“I _love you_ , jerk.”

_You too, Sammy._

“No chick flick moments, bitch,” Dean says, eyes shut, his everything clenched. 

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam says, his eye roll almost audible. “Do you need me to come over?”

“You - you need to study.” 

“I can take a night off,” Sam says, “If you need me.”

He shouldn’t be the one relying on his little brother. That’s not how any of this is supposed to work. Sam is supposed to rely on _him_. Dean’s the one who should be self-sufficient. He should be able to deal with his crap his goddamn self. He _tangled_ this web around him. He dug that goddamn hole. He doesn’t _deserve_ Sam compromising his time to see if he’s okay. 

_He should not be asking for help._

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, because fuck all of it, he wants to see his little brother’s crappy haircut and to see if he’s still wearing his study-hoodie, and he wants to not be alone _right now_ after one of the crappiest evenings he’s had in a long time. He doesn’t want to spend that whole night marinating in all those things Cas wrote and how much Dean really goddamn misses him right now. He doesn’t _want_ to deal with it on his own. _He wants help_.“Yeah, and - you too, Sam.”

*

Everything is _fine_ , and then suddenly his stomach bottoms out and his knees nearly give away because -

He’s just helping Charlie set up the damn front of house because Dorothy called in sick and her replacement can’t get in till fifteen minutes after they open and everything is goddamn peachy. It’s all _fine_ , and then he finds a menu wedged down the side of one of the booths, and then he’s -

Face to face with a picture of _himself_ on the back of his goddamn menu. 

There’s a freaking _photograph_ and a fucking bio that’s spouting some of the usual crap about being a self-taught entrepreneurial prodigy that Dean definitely did not sign off on. He sounds like the world's biggest douchebag even _without_ the goddamn picture and...

_Castiel saw his menu_

With his _face_ on.

He sent his motherfucking _not_ -boyfriend into a place which printed and fucking laminated (or whatever the hell Marv did with his menus so it was impossible for the corners to get all folded and scruffy), proof of one of the shittiest lies Dean has ever told. 

_Cas knows_.

“Charlie,” Dean says, voice strangled as he stares down his own stupid fucking face on his goddamn menu, ice cold dread paralysing him to the spot. Cas, who’s only ever been his eclectic mix of sweet and snarky as hell to him, knows that Dean’s every inch the asshole Cas thought it was on first glance. Okay for a one night stand, but not good for anything else. Not worth fucking up grilled cheese for. Not worth all those blog posts. Just some lying, closeted douchebag. Not worth Cas’ time. “ _Charlie_ ,” Dean says, “What the hell is this?”

“Your menu -- oh, _shit_.”

“ _Charlie_.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, “I didn’t _know_ -”

“- You _run_ my fucking front of house, Charlie, how the hell didn’t you know?”

“You _signed off_ on the new menus, Winchester, so don’t go throwing accusations at _me_.” 

He did. He _did that_. He told Marv he could redesign the goddamn physical menu _and_ he okay-ed the prototype that Marv pressed into his hands after that stupid debate about the inter-work dating rule. He just didn’t look at them. He was pissed at Marv for doing the goddamn job Dean hired him to do and he was distracted from giving Charlie honest-to-god actual _details_ about his thing with Cas. It was the morning after their sexless-sleepover. It was such a small, irrelevant part of his day, that he didn’t even _look_.

Dean’s got every single cent of his savings and ninety percent of his conscious hours plugged into the place, and he didn’t even look. 

Not only is he a shitty not-boyfriend, he’s a fucking terrible business owner.

“Dean,” 

“Who was in that night?”

“ _Dean_.”

“Charlie, I’m not fucking around - who was working?” Dean ask, corner of the menu crushed in his fist, chest being double times. Maybe Cas just… didn’t notice. That he didn’t look at the _back_ of the menu. That he _memorised_ the menu last time he was here. That he just ordered of the specials board rather than even look at the thing in front of him.

(He didn’t order the special, so that seems pretty fucking unlikely, but he’ll take any wins he can get) 

“Dorothy, Zeke, I - a couple of the part time servers. Kevin, Garth. Dean -”

“- _Zeke_ ,” Dean says, barrelling towards the back, where Zeke’s still filling in his time card. Dean’s brandishing a menu with his goddamn face on and he’s fully aware that he looks slightly crazed, but it’s -- _Cas knows_. He knows. _Unless-_ “Zeke -- Thursday night. Guy came in, blue eyes, yay high, stubble -”

“ - kind of dreamy,”

“ _Who served him?_.”

Zeke blinks at him.

That is a _reasonable_ response to Dean losing his fucking mind. 

“ - might have been with a short guy. Annoying. Zeke, come on -”

“- Here,” Charlie substitutes, holding up her phone with a picture of Cas from his blog. “Did you see him?”

“Yes,” Zeke says, “ I took over from serving him after he had finished his starter.”

“Did he _look at the menu_?” Dean demands, waving it in his face, heart beating at six thousand times a minute.

Zeke blinks at him. 

Right. People in restaurants tend to _look at the goddamn menu_.

“I don’t mean did he goddamn _read it_ , I mean - did he look. With intent, at the menu. At my _face_ , on the menu.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, hand on his arm, “You’re scaring the guy,”

“I don’t know,” Zeke says, in that very deliberate, melodic way of his, that has Dean’s stomach dropping a little more from a great height. Oh, fuck. Maybe Cas didn’t cause an actual goddamn _scene_ in the middle of the restaurant, but it’s still beyond the point of plausible deniability in Dean’s own head that he doesn't know, and that’s a low freaking bar.

_His face is on the goddamn menu_. 

Oh, fuck. 

“Did he look pissed?”

“He - “

“He’s a fucking food critic,” Dean says, cutting Zeke off before he can give him anymore slow lines about how goddamn crazy Dean’s being. He knows. He’s lost his mind, but he might have just _lost Cas_ and right now that feels like the pressing issue. “Who shit-talked all over our goddamn restaurant, so I need to _know_ if he looked pissed.”

“Dean,” Charlie interjects, “He _knows_. I know you don’t want to accept that, but -”

“He,” Zeke begins, tilting his head, “He looked _upset_.” 

Oh _god_.

“Goddamnit,” Dean says, running a hand over his face and swallowing, his panic breaking and leaving the cold bite of regret in his windpipe. Dean _let_ this happen. He could have stopped it. He could have prevented this from happening at any goddamn point. Just _talked_ to him. Not signed off on the world’s most douchey menus. Broken things off with him if he actually couldn’t handle it. Done _something_ apart from waiting for it all to explode and shatter and make _Cas look visible upset to a stranger in a restaurant_. 

He signed off on those dumbass menus and he let Cas show up and find out from a crappy piece of paper. 

“I believe he left between the starter and the main course to make a phone call.”

“Your missed calls,” Charlie says, her forehead creased in concern. Cas - Cas left after the freaking starter to _talk to him_ and Dean was drunk as hell in his apartment talking about his crappy feelings. Cas wanted to talk to him and then he changed his mind and went to goddamn _LA_. 

Dean Winchester is _the worst_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean says, “ _Fuck_. Fucking - oh, god.” Dean says, knees threatening to give way again and he sits down, heavily, with the menu still clutched in his left hand. Cas wrote all that stuff after he found out about all the damn lying. He meant all of it about _Dean_ , not his food. He meant that Dean is petty and insecure and disappointing. He - 

Cas hates him. 

He can’t even pretend he doesn’t deserve it.

“Who cooked his goddamn food?” Dean asks, looking up from his hands to fix his gaze on Zeke and Charlie. 

“Dean,” Charlie says, making a face.

“Zeke -”

“ - Kevin was running the pass.”

He’s up and heading to the goddamn kitchen before he’s had a chance to think. He’s _being illogical_ , but if he -- if he knows exactly what happened, maybe he can…. Do something. Fix something. Know exactly what the shit storm of his issues caused in the actual _world_ , to Cas. To another actual person. It’s one thing fucking up his own existence, but _Castiel_. 

“ _Kevin_ ,” Dean says, “Charlie, where’s the damn - this guy,” Dean says, shoving Charlie’s cell phone in his face, “He ordered lamb burger, Zucchini fries, a sundae and -- Zeke, what did the guy with him order?”

“I…. I don’t know.”

“Double stack, straight up fries and the sharer dessert selection for himself,” Charlie says, “What? I got Dorothy to keep the ticket. I figured you’d freak out on me.”

“Do you _remember_?”

“Dean, we cook a lot of food - “

“- If you _don’t_ then that’s - “

“ - no, I remember the ticket,” Kevin says, gaze searching, “Is that - is that your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Dean bites out and _holy shit_ , he just… said that. Out loud. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. “No. _Kind of_. It - there’s _no_ way you screwed the ticket, right?”

“Dean,” 

“You’re not in trouble, Tran, I just need to know.”

“No,” Kevin says, “It was - exactly how it was supposed to be.”

“I thought you said he was a food critic,” Zeke says, and it’s just fucking swell that he has witnesses to this particular crisis, but that’s not important right now. That’s the kind of bullshit that _led_ to this. Cas upset. Cas barely talking to him. Cas bleeding emotions all over his blog about Dean’s crappy food. 

_He definitely wasn’t supposed to disappoint Castiel_. 

“Go figure,” Dean mutters, “Sonuva _bitch_. He hates me. _Fuck_.”

_His face was on his goddamn menu_.

Cas must hate him so fucking much. 

“He’s _mad_ at you,” Charlie says, “That doesn’t mean he hates you. Dean, he doesn’t have a freaking clue what’s going on, except that you lied - “

“ - yeah, right. I _lied_ , Charlie, he’s -”

“- gonna be way confused,” Charlie says, “ _Way_ confused, and hurt, and he doesn’t know that you know he knows -”

“ - he doesn’t know I - what?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Charlie says, “Call him. Explain. Give him a _chance_ to hear you out.”

And even after all of it, that makes his lungs constrict and his pulse pick up.

“I can’t _call him!_ ” Dean blurts out, “I can’t - I am not ready to have this goddamn conversation.”

“Tough luck, Winchester. You timed out of chances here. If there’s any chance in hell that he’s going to hear you out, you needed to call him like yesterday - “

“ - _but_.”

“No,” Charlie says, “Nu-uh. You are not denial-ing yourself out of this, Dean. You really like him. You wouldn’t be _scaring your staff_ and blurting out how much of an idiot you are to everyone if you didn’t _really like him_ so, nut up, you’re dealing with this.”

“I can’t _call him_.” 

“Oh for - fucking _text_ him then. Say you need to talk. Face to face. I assume you’re better at face to face given that you’ve managed to maintain this whole thing until now.”

A text message. That’s… more doable. He can do that. He can _text_. 

“Okay,” Dean nods, swallowing back the desire to vomit and running a hand through his hair, “Okay. _Okay_. I can - I can do that.”

“You got this, Chef,” Kevin says, which doesn’t make him want to actually die, so he’s definitely made progress with this thing. His crisis is once again a form of public kitchen entertainment, but Charlie just declared to the whole room at large that Dean has _feelings_ of the strong, serious kind to everyone, and it’s _fine_. It’s okay. Kevin and Zeke now know he’s fucking their goddamn food critic too, which is not actually information that they needed to know, but it feels… less important than it did. He feels a little sick and stressed and uncomfortable, but it doesn’t feel like his heart is about to quit in protest of all the adrenaline. 

He needs to just… explain. Pour out his soul. Tell Castiel everything. 

Dean’s hands are sweaty and shaking as he pulls out his phone and garbles out a message to Cas. _Hey, I really need to talk to you. Can we meet up?_ He sends it before he has a chance to think any more, fists clenched as he stares at his phone. As messages go, it’s lame and goddamn stupid, but it’s something. Cas might never speak to him again, which would be more than he deserves, but it’s something. He tired.

His phone pings with a reply under a minute later. 

_Yes. I’ve had some good news about work that I want to discuss with you, anyway. Are you free tonight? My vote is dinner._

“He - wants to talk tonight.” Dean says, chest pounding. He sounds less stilted than he has in the messages they’ve exchanged over the last couple of days after Cas told him he was back from LA and made no mention of meeting up. He _knows_ , but he wants to talk to him about the good news he’s had about work. He wants to have dinner. To talk. _Tonight_. 

“ _Good_ ,” Charlie says, “Talking is good.”

_Can do tonight. You want me to cook? Meal out?_

_The Bunker, 7:30_

“He wants to meet here,” Dean says, heart in his throat, looking up at Charlie, Kevin and Zeke feeling fucking horrified. “He wants -- dinner, here.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, eyebrows in her hairline, “Battlestations, people.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aiming for a chick flick car-chase to the airport vibe in that last bit, but with Dean being too repressed to do anything but text xD


	11. Chapter 11

“ - And remember,” Charlie says, sat down opposite him, chin propped up on her elbows, “That you _totally_ got this.”

“Charlie.”

“Who loves you?” 

“You,” Dean deadpans, sinking further into his seat, trying to rub away the tension-headache that’s been blossoming ever since he texted Cas back to tell him he booked a table. He almost definitely _can’t_ do this, but it’s not actually up to him anymore. This is about Cas. Castiel. The guy who made him the world shittiest grilled cheese and implied that he was a nethandreal incapable of putting together a wine list.

“ _And_ Sam, Jess, Garth, Kevin. We _love_ you.”

“Okay, the pre-dumping pep talk? Not helping.”

“Right,” Charlie says, standing up, “So, fifteen minutes. Is he usually early?”

“Depends on if it’s before noon,” Dean says, swallowing as he stares at the table, “You should - go run the restaurant.”

“My kingdom only stretches as far as the atmospheric lighting touches,” Charlie says, standing up, and glancing at him. Charlie is a concentrated ball of nervous energy and Dean’s not entirely sure that she’s actually helping anymore. Not that he knows what _would_ help, except a damn time machine or some really freaking convenient amnesia. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what he’s supposed to do with _any of this_.“The kitchen is your domain.”

“Not right freaking now it isn’t. You’re my right hand woman. Go - do right hand stuff.”

“Sure thing, left hand.”

“That’s not how it works,” Dean says, feeling vaguely sick. Not vaguley. The nausea is a very sharp, firm presence in the back of his throat. Cas, in his restaurant. Dinner. Talking. _Fifteen minutes_. 

He might just fall over and die. 

“I’ll get some water for the table,” Charlie says, wrapping her knuckles on the table before disappearing towards the kitchen. Dean sinks further into the pit of despair that he dug from himself with a spade crafted from his own self-loathing and tries not to actually hyperventilate.

_Cas, I didn’t mean to disappoint you. Never meant to lie to you about any of it, I just -- I panicked and it spiralled and I didn’t tell you because I really freaking wanted to be with you. Was just so goddamn scared that I didn’t tell you._

If these last couple of weeks are anything to go by, the chances of any of that coming out of his mouth are pretty fucking slim.

_Talk, Winchester_. 

“Three o’clock,” Charlie says, sweeping by his table and sliding two menus onto his table like she’s dealing drugs, the picture of Dean’s goddamn face bottom side down. He’d kind of forgotten that he’d be sat here choosing something to freaking order with his _face_ on the other side of the menu. Fuck. _Fuck_ and Cas is right there at three o’clock, quickly making his way to two o’clock and he looks freaking gorgeous as always. Whatever he’s been doing in LA with Anna, it looks like it involved a lot of hanging out in the sun and turning this delicious brown while Dean freaked out in his kitchen wondering what the hell he did wrong (other than _everything_ ). He’s wearing _jeans_ again and a shirt that shouldn’t look so - 

Dean’s _really_ freaking into him. That’s one of the primary problems of this whole situation. The stakes weren’t supposed to get this high. This was never supposed to happen.

“Hey,” Dean says, nearly standing up to greet the guy and aborting the motion; turning it into attempt to drag his chair closer to the table to smooth it out, except the chair is fixed to the ground, which Dean knows full goddamn well because he did the fixing. He winds up doing a weird backwards squat instead before flushing and giving up on moving all together. Cas tilts his head at him and doesn't smile, but that doesn't particularly mean anything because Cas isn't always the smiley type. Maybe more so with Dean, before he fucked up, but not always. Dean knows his expressions pretty damn well and a lot of them are… serious. Most of what he’s thinking buried in subtext.

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, sitting down and looking at him with those blue, blue eyes. Totally fucking impenetrable. “You managed to book a table okay?” Cas asks, tilting his head at him. Dean’s whole everything sinks because -- oh, god, that’s a pointed remark. Cas _is_ pissed. He knew that, really, but there’s a difference reading his carefully crafted criticism on his blog, and having Cas look at him like that. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, mouth ashy as he watches him. 

“That's interesting,” Cas says, voice flatter than Kansas, “I've had difficulties trying to book personally.”

_What the fuck is he supposed to say?_

Dean swallows. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Damns his goddamn voicebox for being such a freaking _coward_ that it can’t commit to talking and damning his brain for not coming up with a single intelligent direction for him to go with this.

“There... a reason you picked here?”

Maybe if they get it out in the open _right now_ , it will be better. If Cas brings it up. If it’s not down to _Dean_. 

“I review every restaurant on my food blog three times,” Cas says, quick as anything, “This is the third time.”

And he’s still got no idea where to go with that. 

“I - why?”

“I prefer not to make up my mind about something until I have all the facts,” Cas says, gaze very steady. Dean's heart does the equivalent of the aborted backwards squat thing he just did and, yeah, Dean does not have this. Not even a little bit does he got this.

_Until he has all the facts_.

Dean’s not convinced that _all_ the facts is gonna help him in this particular situation.

“That's,” Dean says, loses confidence in the rest of his goddamn sentence and just _stops_ without warning. He squares his jaw. _Words_. “That’s...a good policy.”

“Unless I walk away with three lots of food poisoning; then it is absolutely a terrible policy and I have no one to blame but myself.”

He doesn’t need Charlie to explain that fucking metaphor. _Dean_ is food poisoning. He’s freaking _food poisoning_ and Cas may be sat here to hear him out, but that doesn’t for one second mean that the outcome is going to be anything but shitty.

Cas is expecting to be let down. He’s expecting _Dean_ to let him down, he just wants… the facts. 

Dean looks down at his overcompensating, closeted, disappointing menu and blinks. 

_I’m sorry. It got out of hand. I swear, Cas, the important thing to me is that you don’t hate me. That’s why I kept dragging it out, I just -- I really didn’t want you to fucking hate me._

“Hey there,” Charlie says, appearing at their table and trying very hard not to look at Dean, “Can I get you some drinks?”

“I - beer,” Dean says, forcing himself to _goddam chill_ and look at her when he orders. Charlie has a much better game face than Dean Winchester. She’s in full professional, light-and-breezy mode, not _Charlie-mode_ , but her eyes are little too keen to take in Castiel’s whole everything. _Fuck_. 

“Two,” Cas says, “Whatever you recommend.”

“Okay, great. I’ll come bring those over to you shortly. 

“Thank you,” Cas says, eyes drifting to her name badge. “Charlie.”

_Fuck_. 

Fuck. 

He can’t goddamn do this. He’s _food poisoning_. He can’t sit here when Cas wrote all that stuff about his food, twice, and when Dean arranged that whole superfluous three course dinner as an excuse to keep him out of this restaurant. He told him all that vague crap about corporate business and long hours with no freaking substance. He had Charlie repeatedly tell Cas the restaurant was full so he could put off this moment and it’s -- it’s too much. He has no fucking idea what he’s doing or how he’s supposed to feel, or even how he _does feel_ , because fuck knows those things rarely intersect on the venn diagram of his emotional bullshit.

The _problem is_ after his catatonic breakdown this morning, every single member of his wait staff know that he is sleeping with a male food critic who gave them a shitty review. They also know that he is on the world’s most awkward date with the guy _right now_ and they’re all fucking staring at him. Cas’ gaze is uncompromising and level and Dean can’t even hide behind the goddamn menu, because there’s a giant ass picture of his _face_ printed on the back of it.

Fuck.

“Dean,” Cas says, after a few long drawn out moments of silence, his stare lacking it’s usual warmth. Dean swallows and deliberately looks down at the menu, scanning the page without seeing it, carefully picking it up so his picture isn’t visible. “ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, “This is _your_ Restaurant, I’m sure you know what’s on the menu.”

Dean drops the menu back onto the table and feels every single atom of his existence begin to sink.

“Look,” Dean begins, except he has nowhere to go with this, because there is not a single fucking explanation that makes everything he’s done in the past two months make sense. Not a damn thing. It’s dingo-ate-my-baby-crazy, and he can’t - can’t doing anything about that. “I,” Dean says, then stops, rubs the back of his neck. 

_It sort of just happened. I panicked. Please, for the love of all things holy, can we just freaking forget about it and move on_.

Charlie’s back with their beers, effectively popping the swelling balloon of anxiety in his chest for all of five seconds before it starts building again. If he gets out of this alive, it’s gonna be a goddamn miracle. 

“Um, drinks,” Charlie says, setting two beers down and shifting on the balls of her feet a little. The awkwardness is fucking suffocating, even if Cas seems completely immune to the whole damn thing. “Have you, uh, chosen what you want to eat?”

“What does the chef recommend?” Cas asks, with the world's straightest goddamn face. 

Dean nearly falls out of his chair.

He’s pretty sure that’s not even an overreaction this time.

Charlies eyes widen. 

“The, the chef. I -”

“ - Your fake russian accent was terrible, Celeste.” Cas says, fixing her with his sharp blue eyes. Dean did not know about the fake freaking _accents_ and this whole shitstorm is so ridiculous that it would probably be funny if it wasn’t actually happening to him. It _is_ happening to him and it’s fucking awful and it feels like he’s being consumed by his internal organs and - 

Charlie is doing better than Dean. She’s still thrown off guard by how goddamn _bold_ Cas is being about calling them out, but her expression shifts into a smile rather than the abject horror that’s throwing a fucking parade in Dean’s head.

“Oh my god,” Charlie says, “You're _awesome_. Can we be best friends now? Dean's an idiot, I mean, an adorable well meaning idiot, but - I really think we should be friends. I _love_ your blog. Except the last post I mean,” She says, gaze shifting back to Dean, “My bad, Dean.”

It’s going to say _choked on awkward_ on his gravestone.

Fucking hell.

“Charlie, fangirling, stop,” Dean manages, actually _out loud_ , which is something.

“Eep. Sorry,” Charlie says, “So. You should talk. I will, uh, come back.”

And then there’s _silence_ but for the cogs in his head picking up speed and whirring out of control. 

Cas brings the beer up to his lips and drinks. Dean follows suit. Sets it back down with a click and tries to think of _something_ to say. Words. The facts. An explanation of how the fuck they got to this point.

And… nope.

Not a damn thing is coming out of his mouth.

_Awesome_.

“If I ask you a direct question, are you going to tip your beer all over yourself?” Cas asks, a weird mix between fond and pissed off. It's not unkind. Dean winces like he’s been punched anyway, because he's a adrenaline-drunk mess. Castiel sighs and begins running a thumb over the label on his beer. “Dean, I am here to hear you out, despite my better judgement and the staunch advise of my brother. I have processed the anger and the hurt and now I am mostly _confused."_

That is a reasonable goddamn response.

It's not like Dean knows what the fuck he's doing. Why should Castiel know?

“Dean,” Cas says, again, this time a little gentler, less harsh, “How did this happen?”

_Words. The facts. An explanation_. Cas is here to listen to him. To hear him out. He wants to understand.

“I - you said my burger sucked.”

Those were _not the words to start with_ , but the time he's registered that the words have already freaking happened, and Cas’ expression is morphing from mildly impatient to _surprise_ in two seconds flat.

Oh, God. Fucking, fuckity shit. He _can't do this_.

“What?”

Words. Facts. Explanations.

“On your - on your goddamn blog, you said my burger was having a freaking midlife crisis, and my cheesecake was adequate and I wanted… I can _cook,_ damnit.” 

_Not those words_.

“You wanted to prove you could _cook_ ,” Cas says, his eyes narrowed, “ _That_ is what this is to you. You _dated me_ and -- ate my grilled cheese and cooked that omelette with me -- as some twisted revenge ego trip, because I reviewed your restaurant?”

He --- he really shouldn’t have started with the goddamn burgers. He could have said anything. He could have said _I’m sorry_ or _I think your blog is kick ass even when you rip me to shreds_ or _I’m a fucking idiot but I didn’t want any of this to happen_. He could have said that he’s in the closet, or that he’s got trust issues and daddy issues and masculinities issues that add up to him being a total freaking basket case when it comes to things he cares about. He could have said any other goddamn thing and that would have been better than spouting out some inane crap about his burgers.

_No. I don’t care about my fucking burgers - I just care about you_. 

“I - no, no,” Dean says, scrambling around for words. _That’s why I cooked you breakfast, but then you were so fucking great I just - kept your number, but then I’d already lied and I didn’t want you to just freaking leave, so I kept lying_. “Not, I just. Look, man, everyone likes my food, and you walk in with your freaking analogies and -”

“ _At what point_ did you know I had reviewed your restaurant, Dean?” Cas asks, voice razor sharp and _now_ Dean’s really fucking pissed him off, “Were you _aware_ when you approached me in that bar?”

Oh, fuck, this has tanked so damn hard already, and he’s barely even said anything. 

“No,” Dean says, “ _No_ , that was a mistake.”

“ _That_ was the mistake?” Cas asks, brow furrowed, “You invited me for breakfast to prove that you could cook and _approaching me at the bar_ was the mistake? When were you supposed to have had this revelation of my identity?”

“Charlie - Charlie _called me_ about the review - and you - she told me that some guy called Castiel said my burgers sucked, so I looked at your damn review and there was a damn picture of _you_.”

“So you _didn’t remember my name_ and had no intention of seeing me ever again until you realised I gave your restaurant a mediocre review, when you decided to prove that you could cook.”

_Oh god_.

Cas said on that first morning that he’d assumed Dean was an emotionally repressed, closeted asshole at the bar and he was dead on. Dean read his name off Cas’ blog, because he didn’t _want_ to remember the guy he picked up at a bar to try and chase away the shitty feeling of inadequacy that’s chased him round his whole life. He’d figured that he was screwing everything up with the restaurant, anyway, so why the hell _not_ indulge in something he shouldn’t even want in the first place. 

He’s _food poisoning_. 

“You were butt naked in my bed, dude, I didn’t know what _to do_. The breakfast thing just came out of mouth.” 

“Fine,” Cas says, “But why did you _invite me for coffee_ , knowing that you’d lied to me. I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“I - I wasn’t _going to_. I threw away your number, but you - in your _blog_ you wrote that stuff - about my omelette and then I cooked all morning and it was good for the first time in months and it just… You _asked me_ to call you.” 

“You have been reading _all of it_?” Cas asks, his voice icy.

“I - yes, but you… I've been in this food rut, and I liked cooking for you and you - you said nice stuff about my fucking pasta and it all just -”

“ - what are you talking about?”

“Cas, damnit, I - I didn't know they put my face on the fucking menu,” Dean bites out, the heat leaving the conversation all at once because _damnit_ that’s not the pertinent point. Why is he talking about his goddamn food rut and the freaking reviews when he should be just apologizing like a normal freaking person? 

_I’m sorry, Cas. It all got so damn ridiculous. I have no fucking idea how it got this out of hand. Please, forgive me._.

“Did your brother know that you were lying to me?” Cas asks, frown all over his face. His whole stance of finding out the facts seems to have morphed into giving Dean a hard time, which he _deserves_ , obviously. He just doesn't know if it’s gonna help when Dean’s stress levels are this freaking high and he's just... Flailing

“No, no, Sam didn’t know, I - I told him when you want to get coffee. He didn’t know anything -”

“ - So _just_ your best friend, who you had pretend to be Russian to keep me away from your restaurant.”

“ _I didn’t ask her to pretended to be Russian_.”

Why is his whole fucking life ridiculous? 

“Dean, that’s not the part I take issue with. You wanted to keep away from the restaurant-”

“Yeah, because I didn’t -”

“ - that dinner. You invited me over to dinner so that I would cancel eating at your restaurant,” Cas says, words gathering heat, “The _only reason_ you did that was to keep me away from here.”

_No, Cas, I cooked you that dinner because of that damn smile you get when you eat good food. Keeping you away from the restaurant was how I justified it to myself because the fact that I’m falling for you scares me shitless._

“No, Dean says, “It wasn’t _like that_. I wanted to cook you goddamn dinner, I just - I didn’t want to have a conversation.”

“This isn’t a conversation. A conversation involves both parties bringing something to the table.”

“I panicked!” Dean says, and at least that’s _true_. That is a _fact_ and it’s nearly an explanation, which is better than most of the crap that’s fallen out of his mouth. “You’ve already goddamn made your mind up, clearly -”

“I’ve made up my mind that this whole situation is fucking ridiculous,” Cas says and, damnit, Dean’s not sure he’s ever heard him swear before. Dean did that by being the worst person on the goddamn planet. He lied and he plotted and now Cas is half-yelling at him in his own restaurant, with half of Dean’ employees watching with beaded eyes. He’s the worst. Dean sucks so damn bad.

“About _me_. You wrote it all over your goddamn blog - about what a fucking disappointment I am.”

“ _Discovering the person you are very interested in developing a relationship with has been systematically lying to you is disappointing_ ,” Cas says, “ I - it shouldn't have been in my blog. It was petty and I was upset. Despite what you seem to think, the review was never personal before that point.”

“The restaurant is my goddam life’s work, Cas, how the hell isnt that personal?”

“It is a _bit_ , Dean.”

“Well it's all fucking true and it hurt and I freaked.” 

Castiel sighs.

“I’m not here because I was ready to talk to you about this yet,” Cas says, looking up at him with those eyes, “I went to LA to have some time to think, but I _intended_ to wait for you approach me with an explanation rather than pushing for it, but… things have changed. The Stanford Daily has made an offer on my final review of this restaurant. They want to give me a food column off the back of it and to feature all three reviews in one of their national food magazines.” 

Dean’s _everything_ turns to white hot dread.

Castiel’s blog. It…. it’s Dean stripped naked and exposed. It’s Dean’s life’s work torn to shreds. It’s there in black and white that Dean Winchester is a closeted, insecure fuck-up who tanks the first good almost-relationship he’s had in his whole fucking life. It’s Dean effectively being _dumped_ via criticism of his goddamn deconstructed Sundae. It’s awful and shitty and makes him feel so goddam small he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

And Cas _deserves_ to be a writer.

He deserves to have a feature and a column. He deserves it a hell of a lot more than he ever deserved this bullshit from Dean. 

“You're,” Dean begins, the nausea back, and angry about being suppressed for however long they've been talking. “You're selling _that_ review?”

_Everyone will know_. “Is there a reason why I shouldn't?” Cas asks, icy, shoulders tense.

“Nope,” Dean says, his own heckless raising because, fuck, fuck, fuck. It's gonna say in a freaking newspaper that he's a goddamn closet case with identity issues. Nationally. The whole of the goddamn country will, will read about Dean fucking up his whole life, and he can’t even try and stop it because… because _Cas deserves this_ and Cas fucking hates him and Dean is food poisoning. This is fucking karma delivering him his due. “Nope, not a damn reason I can think of, Cas. Do what you want. Congratu-fucking-lations.”

“Regardless of whether I can move past _any of this_ , I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.” 

“Sell it. Whatever.” 

“If there is something _you want_ from this relationship beyond making a fool of me, then I won't do it.”

Dean’s whole everything turns over and churns. He needs more time. He needs to not be battling the intense desire to _run_. He needs to not be so fucking gone on this snarky, bad ass food critic, but he -- he can’t do it. 

_I can’t have this conversation right now, Cas, because I’m too freaked and I’m gonna say something dumb that I’ll regret for the rest of my fucking life. Please can I -- call you next week. Have some time. I - this is your life, but that review makes me feel like the world’s biggest failure every time that I think about it, and I -- I want to think_. 

Words. Facts. Explanations. 

“It's not,” Dean says, “It's not a relationship. I don't. I don't _date men_.”

_Not those words_.

“Then why have you been wasting my time?” Cas asks, voice deadly, “If you say because I said your burgers suck, then I swear -”

“ - My garlic bread is not fucking closeted.”

“Yes it is, Dean, and your burger did suck. That's not what I wrote, but it sucked. Your whole restaurant sucks, because you have diluted yourself and tried to present the front you think you should have. It sucks because you do not allow people to see you because you are too scared of their opinions. You don't even like your restaurant, Dean. You thinks it's pretentious and trying too hard, so why do you expect anyone else not to see it?”

“You done?”

“No,” Cas says, “I am not _done_. I came here with my brother, Dean, and it was humiliating. You have _humiliated me_ , because you are too damn stubborn to admit to yourself what you want and because you are insecure and so desperate for people to like you that you have sold yourself out. You can _cook_ and you are more the capable of doing this, but your _infernal_ baggage is dragging you down. You are an adult. Grow up, and if you're not going to attempt to apologize, then you should leave, because I am going to review this restaurant again and get a steady paid writing job, because I know _what I want._ ”

Dean’s frozen in his seat _staring_ at him. He’s pretty sure that Cas just chucked him out of his own fucking restaurant, which is pretty damn entitled, not that Dean doesn’t deserve it. He _does_ , but he -- he _wants_ to apologize. He wants to actually _say what’s in his head_ instead of all this inflammatory crap coming out of his mouth. He wants -- he wants to tell him that’s insecure and a fucking idiot and has a complex about being happy, but that he’s pretty sure Cas could _make_ him happy if he stopped sabotaging himself. He wants to, needs to, do _something_.

This is crunch time. This is _the moment_ he’s gonna regret forever, but he’s paralysed by fucking _everything_ and he - 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice crystal clear and crisp, “Get out.” 

And he does. 

His car keys rest of his crap are in his office, but he's not going anywhere near that place right now. He can walk. Get a taxi. Do anything he goddamn can to get out of the firing line, because...

_Why does every damn word of what he said have to be true?_

“- Dean,” Charlie says, half running after him and, fuck, fuck, fuck. He's out. Out to Charlie, out to Sam. He’s out to the rest of his guests in his restaurant and the remaining members of his staff who didn’t know about this shit show in the first place. _Out of Cas’ life_. Out as a shitty restauranteer . Everyone knows and Cas chucked him out and he ruined _everything_ because he’s fucking terrified of all of this. It’s too much. It’s been so far beyond what he can cope with the whole time and now it’s just… crashing down around his ears. “ _Dean._ ”

“Charlie, I _can’t_ , I just - I can't deal with this right now. Just. Leave me alone.”

Charlie blinks at him.

“Okay, yeah, I mean. I'm on shift and your my boss, but - you want me to spit in his food?”

“No,” Dean says, swallowing back a sudden desire to break down and fucking _cry_ that he is absolutely not going to give into. “Give him whatever he wants.”

_Dean Winchester is food poisoning_.


	12. Chapter 12

Charlie sends Sam.

Sam lets himself in with the key he never surrendered after he moved out rather than bothering to freaking knock and Dean just sits there on his goddamn sofa until his little brother’s lugged in a backpack full of textbooks and the Star Wars DVDs he claimed not to have borrowed. He’s not really sure he _wants_ his brother here, but so far he’s gotten back to his apartment and stared at the walls, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

_Dean -- get out._

“Car keys, wallet,” Sam says, unloading Dean’s stuff onto his coffee table. Dean blinks himself back into focus, gaze settling on Sam. “Baby’s in your parking lot.”

Dean swallows. 

“Not feeling particularly chatty, Sam.”

“Good,” Sam says, “Because the bar is in a week and I really need to cram. He kicked you out of your own restaurant, huh?”

“Yep,” Dean says, flat, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay,” Sam nods, “Star Wars?”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, jaw clenched as Sam sets himself up on the other end of the sofa, every inch his kid brother as he flicks on Star Wars. They’ve watched Star Wars in different motels across the whole damn country and usually, it helps. He’s not holding out hope _right now_ , even if Sam’s popped open one of those colour-flavoured energy drinks in a brand new study-hoodie, like the guy isn’t a couple of weeks away from being an honest to god lawyer. 

Dean closes his eyes and lets the familiar noise of _Star Wars_ wash over him until some of the storm in his head has cleared.

_Your whole restaurant sucks, because you have diluted yourself and tried to present the front you think you should have. It sucks because you do not allow people to see you because you are too scared of their opinions. You don't even like your restaurant, Dean. You thinks it's pretentious and trying too hard, so why do you expect anyone else not to see it?_

His chest hurts.

“He’s selling his review to some Stanford paper and this states-wide food magazine,” Dean says, the words scraping out of his throat like he’s had a cold for three weeks. They sound raw. Deadened. 

Sam transfers his gaze from notebook to the side of Dean’s face and clicks his pen shut. Dean concentrates on not reacting to Sam’s movement, whatsoever, and continues watching Star Wars without seeing any of it. He doesn’t even have a goddamn clue which movie they’re even watching, but that hasn’t been the point of watching Star Wars for a long time.

“He’s… wow, that’s kind of a douchebag move.”

“I deserve it.”

“No actually, you don’t,” Sam says, brow furrowing. If Dean _looked_ in his direction, he’s pretty sure he’d be treated to one of Sam’s too-precious-for-this-world looks and he can’t deal with it right now. He doesn’t _want_ Sam to be so goddamn nice to him. “I’m not saying you didn’t screw up, Dean, but he already kind of gave you your due by chucking you out your own restaurant. _That_ you probably deserved. I _read_ the last thing he wrote, Dean, and selling that to a national food magazine is just.... _vindictive_. Maybe he isn’t all that great.” 

He is. 

_If there is something you want from this relationship beyond making a fool of me, then I won't do it._

Cas is honest to God, that fucking great. 

“Sam, I told him he should do it,” Dean says, staring at his coffee table. He’s not sure he exactly feels _human_ right now. It’s like his system’s been so overloaded with freaking emotion that it’s all just shut down. Autopilot. “He said he wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want him to, or if I wanted -- him.”

Sam blinks at him.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Like _that’s_ a newsflash,” Dean mutters, grinding his teeth together. He _is_ glad Sam’s here, even if he’d prefer Sam to give him a hard time. He’s glad they’ve got Star Wars playing in the background and that Sam has one of his nerdy books propped on his knees, but none of that changes the facts.

He can’t _undo_ everything that happened today. He’s stuck with it.

_Get out_. 

“Well, there’s no such thing as bad press,” Sam says, “A review with as much bite as that will probably bring more people in than deter them, so people can see whether it was _that bad_. Then they’ll discover that you’re awesome. I don’t think it’ll impact your profits.”

“That’s not actually the part I’m upset about.”

“I know,” Sam says, falling into silence for long enough that Dean figures they’ve moved on, until apparently they _haven’t_.“I don’t care _what_ lie you told the guy, you don’t deserve for him to sell that review.”

“Who says?”

“ _I_ say, Dean. _No one_ gets to crap over you like that -”

“- Sam.”

“No,” Sam says, “Dean, _why_ do you think it’s okay for anyone to act like your feelings don’t matter?”

Dean turns to look at him, dragging his gaze away from the TV.

“Sam, _I fucked up_.”

“You lied about your job,” Sam says, “That’s about as malicious as taking a couple of years off your age in the first part of a relationship. I’m not _saying_ it was a good idea, but it’s pretty freaking obvious that you just panicked and, Dean, you’re not the first person in the world to have a sexuality crisis. It _happens_ , okay? I _get_ that Cas is pissed and upset, but it’s one thing making you look like an idiot in front of your staff and a couple of strangers and another to put that humiliation in _print_. I don’t care if you agreed to it. Actually, I _do_ care, because -”

“ - I get it Sam, I’m a headcase whose so scared of being happy that I juggle grenades for fun.”

“ - no, Dean, because you’re so willing to martyr yourself for people you love and I’m just -- I’m just _sorry_ that no one ever treated that with respect.”

Dean’s stomach jolts like he’s gotten an electric shock.

“We’re not talking about _love_.”

“Aren’t we?” Sam asks, twisting in his seat to look at him with those imploring eyes. The nausea from earlier is coming back because, _oh god_ , now Sam is pushing him again. “Look, Dean, I’m not even just talking about Cas right now, not really. It’s _always_. Dad. Grief tore him apart, Dean, but you gave him everything - you did whatever the hell it was you thought would make him happy, for _years_.”

_Yessirs and okay Dad and whatever made Sam happy. Whatever didn’t rock the goddamn boat._

“I _really_ don’t want to talk about Dad right now.”

“This is important,” Sam says, “Because -- it wasn’t your _fault_.”

It _was_. It was _Dean’s fault_ and he was supposed… keep everyone together, not drive everyone thousands of miles away from each other. Not to drive Sam out to college and to drive John _wherever_ he went. Whatever happened. Whatever was going through his head.

_Mary had better things to do with her time than make you pie, Dean._

“Sam, you don’t know jack _shit_ about what happened with Dad, okay. No one does.”

“No, I do _know_ that it wasn’t your fault, Dean, because he let _you down_ , not the other way round. And _me_. I was horrible to you.”

“You were an angry kid. A teenager.”

“You _didn’t deserve it_. You did everything to make me happy and I -- I applied to go to Stanford behind your back.”

“Like I didn’t know what you were up to.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam says, “I let you down.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” Sam says, “What I’m trying to say is… Dean, I’ve been giving you a hard time about this and I should have been… building you up, instead, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about _then_ and I’m sorry about now, because - you _do_ deserve better, even if you don’t believe it. You deserved better the whole time. You learned to cook so you could stop feeding me frozen pizzas and then you cooked for me every damn night instead of having your own life. You _quit_ high school and got a job so you could buy me new freaking sneakers - “

“ - no one _asked_ me to do that, and I was done with that whole shitty place -”

“ - okay, no one asked you to, but no one _thanked you_ either. You’re _not_ disappointing, Dean. You’re not. You’re my big brother and I love you and I’m proud of you even when you’re kind of an idiot. You screwed up, you're not a _screw up_. You're actually pretty fucking successful for a twenty nine year old self taught chef with a GED and a give ‘em hell attitude.”

_You sabotage every good thing that comes your way because you don't think that you deserve to be happy, and it's bullshit._

“You're the Winchester success story.” 

“Uh, all I've done is go to school, Dean. A lot, which I literally would not have been able to do without you buying my books, cooking me food, saving up for crazy amounts of tuition fees and letting me live with you rent free for that whole two years.”

“You have Jess.”

“You pretty much raised me,” Sam counters, “You should have told me that all of this was going on in your head, Dean. I know I should have known, but - you should have told me.”

Dean’s whole fucking soul aches. 

_I refuse to let you make me the only thing that I will make you happy._

“You hungry?” Dean asks, finally looking at him. Sam, for everything he’s just said, looks pretty goddamn disappointed that Dean’s changing the subject, but.. He’s raw right now. He’s been stripped of so many layers of skin that he’s got no fucking idea what’s left. _Everyone_ knows so much about his bullshit now and he’s never been this publically vulnerable before. “Didn’t actually get to eat with Cas before he kicked me to the curb.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “I could eat. Take out?” 

“No,” Dean says, through the knife in the back of his throat, “No - I’ll cook.”

“Dean,”

“I _want to_ ,” Dean says, “Not… not because I want to _cook_ it’s… It’s the only damn thing I know how to do.”

“Dean,”

“No, I mean,” Dean says, swallows, “I suck at words. If _this_ has proved anything, it’s that I -- I suck, at words. They come out wrong or they just stay in my head - ”

“ - because you didn’t think anyway wanted to _listen_ , Dean -”

“ - _okay_ , I’m not talking to Dr Phil here, I’m talking to my kid brother, so shut the fuck up a minute. I’m just trying to _say_ that you -- you're my snot nosed punk assed little brother and I am damn proud of you too, Sam, and that I never once needed some kind of apology from my for _any of it_ and I wanna cook you some goddamn food because I love your scrawny, self righteous ass, and feeding you is probably the only thing that's gonna make me feel less like a piece of shit after _everything_ that happened today.”

His voice cracks on the final word, but that might be thing that has Sam swallow back whatever he was going to say and just nod, which is good.

Cooking for Sam will help. Cooking for Sam has _always_ helped.

“You get your ass back into study gear,” Dean says, with an attempt at jovial that falls flat, “I’ll russel up something.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says, but his eyes stay tracking Dean’s progress off the sofa. Sam’s worried; it’s written all over his face, as well as in his _proud of you_ speech, but Dean still feels kind of… stagnant. Okay enough. He’s not doing _well_ by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s - manageable. 

He deserved it and he knew it was coming. It’s not a goddamn surprise. 

_You are an adult. Grow up, and if you're not going to attempt to apologize, then you should leave, because I am going to review this restaurant again and get a steady paid writing job, because I know what I want._

He doesn't like any of it, but he will deal. He always does. 

Then he’s staring down the content of his fridge and the grief of it slaps him round the face. 

He bought this food _for Cas_ in a wave of optimism after the guy text him about being back from LA. He stood there in the goddamn grocery store, thinking about Cas, and weighing up what he’d like. He spent five whole fucking minutes trying to work out what kind of fish the guy might like best; racking his brain for any conversation they had that might give him some clue, walking right back to the vegetable aisle after he’d made a decision to switch out the type of potatoes he picked up. White wine, too, because the guy’s pretentious enough to drink the right kind of drink with the food on some innocuous Tuesday night. He bought enough eggs for more omelette. Three kinds of cheese.

He _knew_ that Cas knew when he was being honest with himself, but he bought more groceries than he could possibly eat himself with a smile on his face, just in case.

And he - he’s not going to eat any of it.

It’s _done_. Dean _broke it_.

_Castiel_.

What the fuck did he do?

What did he _do_?

Cas - Castiel - with his smooth hands settled on Dean’s knee while they watched Gabriel’s shitty baking show. Curled up against him on Dean's sofa, with his voice deep and rough in Dean’s ear as he delivered damning, wild character assessments of the people in the freaking commercials. Grilled cheese and goddamn omelettes; coffee and pie; risotto. Baby zucchini roasted with not-too-much-garlic, and Castiel. _Dean, I think this is going very well_ and _liking you this much was a total fucking accident_. Sexless-sleepovers and goddamn cuddling. Cas, with his say-exactly-what’s-on-my-mind-snark, driven to change his whole damn world because of his stark passion. Cas could see right through him on _day one_ and he liked it. Pasta metaphors and freaking food poisoning. Boldly declaring that Dean’s one of the most attractive individual’s he’s ever gotten his goddamn mouth on, totally bareass naked. Cas’ pink hue of pleased surprise as he ate that breakfast they cooked together, and he’s not - 

He’s not coming back. 

Dean’s stupid fucked up head _cost him_ Castiel. He just -- he couldn’t talk. It was crunchtime and he could even _speak_ and it’s like - 

Oh, god.

He sits down before his knees give way. 

_He didn’t expect it to hurt this much_. 

But it’s -- all of it. Everything’s been running so close to the surface, lately and he’s been - losing his damn mind, obviously, but there were parts of it where he was really fucking happy - and if he’d just had some more time then maybe he could have _processed_ something. Done something. Said something to _stop this_ , but there’s all this shit that’s been locked up in his head for so goddamn long and now everyone fucking knows about it. 

Charlie knows about _Alastair_ and way more crap about _John Winchester_ than he usually preferred to discuss. Dean told her all of that stuff about Cas over coffee and it was the first time in his whole goddamn life he’d ever felt good about referring to him not being totally straight in a conversation, out loud. Then there’s Jess and Kevin and Zeke and - he figured it would be _worse_ than it actually was, after, but it was still… And Sam -- apparently Sam knows everything that’s ever gone through his _head_ and he’s proud of him anyway.

He doesn’t know how any of this happened, but everything was always so fucking hard. The only thing he ever did was try and make life _easier_ , it just didn’t work.

Then Sam is there with a hand on Dean’s shoulder and he says _I’ll cook, Dean_ and he does, while Dean sits there with his head tearing itself apart, paralysed in his goddamn kitchen. Sam _cooks_ and Dean just fucking sits there and listens to his brother moving around their kitchen; chopping, slicing, frying. 

He broke all of it. He broke it. 

_Here,_ Sam says, and he eats. It’s probably better than anything Sam’s cooked for him before, but he can’t taste a damn thing. He eats it all, anyway, with his gaze swimming and his hands barely not shaking.

_Fuck_. 

He - Cas thinks he’s food poisoning. 

_Maybe you should get some sleep, Dean_ Sam says, and it’s easier to agree than to fight it, so he goes and he absolutely doesn’t sleep.

*

Sam’s still there in the morning. 

He’s sat at Dean’s kitchen table with a pot of coffee and a stack of pancakes that he apparently made himself (although Dean’s got no fucking idea when his brother started cooked, because it damn sure wasn’t any time they lived together), tapping his pen against a notepad. 

“Who taught you how to cook?” Dean asks. He still sounds dead inside, but at least he’s fucking coherent which is... something. Better than last night. He’s trying really goddamn hard not to think too much about Sam witnessing that, because Dean's not even sure what the hell that was except not something he's gonna repeat in front of another person ever again.

It's done, and Dean's just going to have to fucking deal with that. “Uh, you did,” Sam says, “You know that Jess doesn’t cook, at all, Dean.” 

“You never cooked when you lived here.”

“You’re a _chef_ ,” Sam shrugs, “So sue me.”

“You’re the lawyer - go sue yourself,” Dean mutters, pouring himself a mug of coffee and pinching his forehead with his fingers, “You’re saying these… pancakes, will be edible.”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam says, “You look like shit,” 

“Feel like shit,”

“Did you just acknowledge a feeling you’re having?”

“Eat shit, Sammy. In fact, eat your damn pancakes. Same difference,” Dean says, sitting down heavily and closing his eyes. “I’m going to work, but why are you up so damn early? Actually, better question - why are you still here?”

“ _That_ I’m not dignifying with a response,” Sam says, “I can sleep in six days times.” 

“Thought you were signed up to be a summer associate in _eight_ days time.”

“Right, so I can sleep for two days,”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, spearing some of Sam’s pancakes on his fork. Apparently, he can taste food again now, and it's pretty good. It's better because his little brother did this for him, despite the bar, despite the fact that he warned him this would happen and despite the fact that Dean probably doesn’t deserve it. Sam stayed it out. He put a touch too much cinnamon in his damn pancakes, but he stayed. 

“Dean, if you needed to take the day off…”

That is the last goddamn thing he needs. 

“Nope,” Dean says, “Work is good. Better than staying here and losing my mind.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “But -”

“And Sam,” Dean says, through a mouthful of pancake, chest twisting. Today already sucks, because Dean's life sucks. His gut aches, but he's just gonna have to get fucking used it. Sam's gotta go home and Dean's gotta get used to being alone again and that's how it's gonna be. “I, uh, really appreciate - last night - but I swear to god, if you’re still here when I get back from work, I will punch you in the face.” 

“Fine,” Sam says “But, Dean, _call me_ if you need me.”

“Like a teenage girl after prom night,” Dean says, setting down his cutlery to look over at his little brother, with his stupid haircut and his puppy-dog eyes. Dean’s got no goddamn idea what he’d do without him. Not a fucking clue. Maybe he’s…. Maybe he’s driven Cas away, but he gets to keep Sam. He gets Sam. “Sam - I am gonna be okay.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re okay right now.”

“That, I didn’t claim,” Dean says, holding out a hand for Sam’s notebook, “You want me to test you?”

“Thought you had to get to work.”

“Not right this second,” Dean says, and Sam hands it over. It still sounds like he's dragging the words out from a locked up place under his lungs m, but words are happening. “Always got time for my nerdy little brother.” 

He still feels like most of his internal organs have been vacuumed out of his throat, but there’s something _nice_ about taking an extra half an hour to fall into the familiar routine of helping Sam with exam prep.

*

“Um -- Dean. _Hey_. You’re here,” Charlie says, “At work.”

“Yes,” Dean says, pulling on his chef whites and brushing past her, deliberately not catching her eye. He’s gonna get through the day by just _getting through_ the day and that’s the only goddamn plan he’s got left in his arsenal. “Because I _work here_.” 

“Yes but - the heartbreak and the drama.”

“ _Look_ , thanks for sending Sam over, but I am gonna be fine. No, I _aint_ fine right now and no, I do not want to talk about it before a however many hour shift -- I am here to cook and that’s it.”

“Okay, then,” Charlie says, “Dean…”

“I will let you know when I want to talk, Charlie. _Okay_ , Kevin - where are we on food prep?”

“Um,” Kevin says, glancing at him, eyes slightly wide. He’s not gonna talk about this shit at work just because it’s the only thing he can think about, generally. Just because they _all know_ doesn’t mean he has to give them honest to god details about it. They’re still his freaking employees. He’s _allowed_ some goddamn boundaries, even if he’s _out_ now. By accident.

Charlie - Charlie, he will talk to. 

Not today when it’s still so raw that he feels like existing is chafing his everything, but later.

Fuck. 

“ _Kevin_ , food prep. Now.”

“Right,” Kevin says, and snaps to it.

He gets through to the end of the shift without exchanging a single non-work related word, and he hibernates in his damn office until the dinner shift starts. Cooks, runs the pass, drives home.

Forces himself into cooking some of the other crap in the fridge and has a single beer before getting back to bed and giving up on the whole fucking day.

_Cas thinks he’s food poisoning_. 

He's got nothing he's still clinging on to hiding in particular any more, but it sure still feels like he's in hiding from goddamn everything.

*

The Sunday shift is better in virtute of being _quieter_ than Saturday, but worse for exactly the same goddamn reason. Everyone’s looking at him for too long, like they’re expecting him to drop more food or injure himself in another moment of flailing, which is a reasonable assumption but pretty damn annoying. The worst thing is that he he’s pretty sure he’s more likely to need to leave the fucking room to sit and space out with his head in his hands, because the panic has given way to just… hurt. 

He’s just fucking _sad_ and pissed at himself, but there’s not a whole lot left to panic about.

It’s all… out. Common goddamn knowledge.

Everyone knows his bullshit. Dean’s the star of the freakshow and everyone’s invited. He doesn’t exactly feel _good_ about it, but space from the panic feels like he can breathe again. It hurts like goddamn hell, but there’s oxygens getting into his lungs. It's corroding his insides, but it's there.

So that’s something. 

The latest email from fucking Marv now has a title saying _URGENT!!_ that’s chasing up Dean’s decision about the goddam wait staff budget, that he has somehow put off for nearly two goddamn months. Marv turns up just before the dinner service and Dean tells him he’ll have a freaking answer within the next week, just to get rid of him. 

He doesn't have the energy for any thing else. 

On Sunday night, he drinks. Not as much as he the blue-crap and tequila night, but enough that he has to peel himself out of out of bed on Monday morning feeling shittier and more worthless than he has in years.

_Then why have you been wasting my time?_

*

“So - hey.”

“Charlie - not in the mood to talk.”

“No, I know,” Charlie says, looking at him with her wide eyes, all sympathetic and fucking lovely, because Charlie is probably the best friend he’s ever had. He hasn’t spoken to her since the whole shit show went down, because if he talks then he’s gonna have a goddamn breakdown and he needs to… needs to keep going. Needs to battle it out. Needs to not fucking fall apart for as long as possible. “It’s just - you got another review.”

Dean’s stomach drops from a great height.

“Not,” Dean manages, left hand clenching, “Not, uh…”

“ _No_ ,” Charlie says, and that’s enough for his lungs to deflate. Not Cas. Not _him_. Some other jumped up, pretentious asshole food-writer that he can distantly dislike without further context. _Not_ Cas. “No, from someone else. It’s kind of sucky though.”

Awesome. Exactly what he needs right now.

“I’ll read it later.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, “But, Dean, don’t torture yourself over it. Food critics exist to make other people miserable, right? And to encourage people to overthink good food.” 

Dean sets down his pen and massages his forehead.

“Story of my goddamn life, Charlie. All I have _done_ here is overthink good food.”

“Spoiler alert: that’s kind of what the review says.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, “Fed of being read by fucking writers.”

“Hey - are you okay?” 

“No,” Dean says, and leaves it at that. 

He reads the review later over the single beer he’s allowing himself. It’s more or less in a line with what both Cas and Sam referenced about his restaurant before. That he’s over thought his concept into trying _too hard_. That it’s identity confused and lost it’s goddamn way. That, underneath all of it, there’s promise, but it’s too trapped in extreme effort to turn it into something it’s not. This writer says fussy. Cas’ _overcompensating_ is probably a better description. And... 

Apparently it's not just Castiel who can see right through him from a goddamn burger, now. He's getting more obviously a hot mess, in all areas of his damn life. All that shit he carefully hid under his carefully constructed personal has been spilling out from the seams of his life. If this is how it's gonna be now -- every damn person coming into his restaurant and seeing right through Dean Winchester -- he can't. He can't do that. 

He's got no idea what to put on his autumn menu or even what to do with his fucking life, because all of its such a goddamn mess that there's barely any thing left to work with. 

He did this. 

_You can cook and you are more the capable of doing this, but your infernal baggage is dragging you down._

He’s screwing it up because he’s so damn scared of screwing it up. 

_You screwed up, you're not a screw up_.

He can’t live like this anymore. He can’t live _with_ this. He can’t -- he can’t do it. He can’t deal with the consequences of choosing to make his life _easy_ , because it’s not. It’s gritty and painful and shitty and he kind of hates himself right now, because Dean -- Dean is scared, and pathetic and controlled by his own goddamn fear. Because he _does_ corrupt everything good that happens out of some fucked up belief that he doesn’t deserve it, or that it can’t happen, and --

Every damn thing Cas said is true. 

But maybe he doesn’t have to be true, forever.

_You screwed up, you're not a screw up_.

Dean types out two texts messages. One to Cas just saying _I’m sorry_ which he nearly doesn’t send (he grits his teeth and does it anyway, because he deserves an apology even if Dean fucked everything else up beyond belief and it won't make a difference to any thing at all, plus he means it; he’s so goddamn sorry he can barely function whenever he thinks about it) and another to Charlie asking her to make arrangements to close the whole restaurant on Thursday to he can actually fucking think. 

He needs to stop and work all of this out before it drowns him.

And then he calls Bobby Singer for the first time since any of this shit show started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for the lack of humour in this chapter, hah. Also, I shall be getting to responding to all your lovely and wonderful comments, I just didn't want to leave y'all waiting too long :)
> 
> Thanks so much for all the encouragement and support though.


	13. Chapter 13

Calling Bobby shouldn’t make him feel like every single one of his muscles is a coiled spring ready to burst, but the spark of courage only lasts for long enough for Bobby to pick up and then he’s being crushed by the familiar weight of his whole goddamn existanance.

_You screwed up, you're not a screw up_.

Fuck and _damnit_ this should be so hard. He hasn’t even goddamn committed to anything, yet, and his dumbass heart is still reacting like he's ran a damn marathon.

This is Bobby. _Bobby_. He’s gruff and orney as hell, but he’s harlmess. 

“Didn't know you remembered by damn number, boy,” Bobby says. Normally hearing _Bobby_ drains a little of the tension out of his shoulders, but now it makes his stomach clench. Oh, _fuck_. This - this is all a terrible freaking idea. He just, he can't.

“Yeah, sorry Bobby, I -”

“Save your apologies for someone else,” Bobby says, “Just call more often, y’idjit. Not like I don't know you're busy, with those crazy hours you pull at that place of yours. Guessing you're still pretty booked up.”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Pretty full. Turnover’s good.”

“Uhmhmm. And how are you, prey?”

“I…it’s all _peachy_ over here,” Dean says, in the most _I feel like someone put my insides in a goddamn blender_ way he can manage, because that’s the way Dean Winchester communicates his freaking feelings. 

Bobby gets it, anyway.

“So _that's_ why you're calling me.”

“Bobby.”

“You wanna chew my ear off with your whining, you should buy me a drink first. Not save up all your drama and dump it on my ass when you’re up to eyebrows in your own crap.” 

“Uncomfortably accurate and graphic.”

“And we’re skipping the how are yous and jumping right in to me giving you the goods, after three damn months of radio silence. And that damn brother of yours is just the same. Not a _word_ until he’s losing his mind about the bar...”

It _has_ been a long time since he called Bobby, let alone freaking _Ellen_ , but he’s been so caught up in just… everything, that it hadn’t even occurred to him, between battling it out with the concept of his Autumn menu and all the goddamn drama that’s happened since. Bobby deserves better from both of them, really, but -

The lecture helps. It’s got the same comfort as a home cooked meal. Bobby’s been bitching at him, affectionately, about _something_ for most of his goddamn life. 

“Awh, Bobby, you know we love you.”

“Balls, now I'm really worried,” Bobby says, and Dean’s stomach drops. Right. He usually keeps words like _love_ locked up and buried, even when he’s aiming for jovial. That’s twice it’s come out of his mouth in the last week, so clearly he’s losing his fucking mind. Not that he didn’t _know_ that, by this point. “What's eating you, son?”

Dean's silent for a long few moments.

“Dean.”

“I, uh, got a crappy restaurant review today,” Dean says, picking up his half-drunk beer for something to do with his hands. “My menu is _fussy_ and self-conscious.” 

“You crying over food critics now?”

Dean’s not touching _that_ with a freaking bargepole. 

“I dunno, Bobby, it’s - Sam said the same thing. That it _resonated_ with me because it’s what I think about my food. That I’m _projecting_ and I… can’t come up with a fucking Autumn menu to save my goddamn life.” 

“So you can’t get it up. Pretty sure most cooks have an off day.”

“Try off _year_ ,” Dean says, “I’m a _hack_ , Bobby, and crap’s been getting on top of me. The guy I hired to stop me from running everything to the ground printed my goddamn face on my menu and I was so distracted that I didn’t even notice. People have been ordering off a menu with my _face_ on, and I - my douchey sundae sucks, and my wine list makes me feel dirty because -- I don’t even _care_ that I don’t care about wine -- and Sam keeps giving me pep talks about all my fucking issues and I maybe he’s right, but does that mean I can’t punch him in the face? And - _damnit_ if my internal , I don’t know, crap, has to leak out into my fucking food, does it have to be my inner _teenage girl_. I aint _fussy_.”

“So you’re copping to self-conscious?”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t be if assholes stopped ripping into my food.”

“You know last time you called, you were whining about food critics giving you _good_ reviews,” Bobby says, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Because it was bullcrap. My food sucked then, too, at least now I’m not the only one thinking it, but do they have to -- is it really goddamn necessary to pick out words like _that_ and brand me with it?”

“Like, fussy?”

“Yeah, or, -- other words. _Overcompensating._ Insecure. Dissa-fucking-pointing.” 

“How many reviews were they?”

“Three,” Dean says, “But these people get paid by the freaking word.”

“Uhmh,” Bobby says, “So why, exactly, are you taking it personally?”

“Because it’s goddamn _personal_ ,” Dean says, heart racing, “It’s food. Food _is personal_. And…” Dean stalls, squares his jaw and barrels on past the wall of his usual comfort level. “I - I’ve been seeing someone. I mean, I was. Not -- not anymore.”

Bobby lets the silence drag on for long enough for Dean to know that Bobby _got_ the fact that the breakup with the pertinent part of that whole spiel about freaking food. He knows how to decode that venn diagram of things-that-Dean-says and things-that-Dean-means to get some meaningful results, then can usually read that subtext from there. 

He’s freaking _Bobby_ , so he probably knows that Dean’s a walking zombie with everything-issues, a too-empty bed and a fridge full of food he can’t face looking at for too long. 

“Okay to summarise: you work too much, you got your heart bashed up and you need to work on communicating with your damn brother.”

“Me and Sam are good, now.”

“Well that's _something._ ”

“I don't know, Bobby, I just feel like my internal bullshit is ruining my fucking life.”

“Least you're not being over dramatic about it,” Bobby says, dryly. 

“Right,” Dean says, some kind of fucking avalanche happening inside his stomach, which is just goddamn fantastic. Really fucking _awesome_. “Well, that’s - that’s why I called.”

“Mmhmm,” Bobby says, “Anything else you wanna get off your chest?”

And that’s his opening. 

That’s _his opening._

_Why is this so goddamn difficult_?

Bobby pretty much saved him. Dean has got a freaking clue how much more of a mess he’d have been _without_ Bobby being the one stable part of his whole damn childhood. He kept him sane. He was there, always, by choice. Bobby _choose_ to be their surrogate father a long time before John Winchester actually disappeared. He - he won’t care. Dean knows that in his bones. In his bone marrow. Bobby is too goddamn _good_ to give a crap about any of that external baggage, but it’s just -- 

It’s just not that fucking easy to undo years of layering up the denial and the repression and the staunch belief that he’s not allowed to acknowledge any of this shit, out loud, to anyone. The rest of it just _happened_. He barely managed to say anything sensible to Sam before the panic kicked in and he started spouting distraction tactics. With Charlie, there was other crap on his mind, and the rest of it all happened by accident. Jess. Kevin. Fucking _Zeke_. 

That's why he _wanted_ to do this. To gain some semblance of fucking control over this whole shit show. To actively make a goddamn decision rather than stand there while his carefully crafted caricature-Dean burns to the ground around him.

“No,” Dean says, squaring his jaw, chest twisting, “No, Bobby, nothing else. I - I’ll call you later. I’m gonna - go.”

“Okay, son,” Bobby says, “Don’t be a stranger, y’idjit.” 

“Roger that,” Dean says, hanging up and nearly throwing his fucking phone across the room because it’s not _fair_ that this is so goddamn hard, when it goes against logic and it is directly counter to his happiness. He can’t carry on like this, because everything keeps spilling out from the seams. He can’t _live_ like this. He doesn’t even want to anymore. He doesn’t _want it_. He wants… he wants to live without fear. To cook whatever the fuck he wants without worrying what people will think. Not to have to win sixteen internal battles with himself before he can acknowledge what he actually wants. To be brave enough to do it anyway and damn the baggage.

_You screwed up, you're not a screw up_. 

Bobby calls him son.

Fuck it.

_Fuck it_. 

He’s shaking a little as he redials, and his throat has closed up by the time Bobby has hit answer, but he manages to repress the knee jerk desire to hang up so that’s _something_. He -- he’s never gotten this far before. He’s never even tried.

“Let me guess,” Bobby says, “There _is_ something else.”

“Yeah,” Dean says and _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , “Yeah, there’s something else, Bobby.”

“I’m listening.”

Oh, God.

“I, uh,” Dean says, “Might need a minute. Five. Maybe an hour.”

_Hang up. Hang up. He should definitely hang up_.

“I got all day,” Bobby says, “Hell, boy, I can give you all night if that’s how long it’ll take you to the pull the words out your ass.” 

And - fuck. _Fuck_. Bobby knows. He knows and he was… he was _giving_ Dean the opportunity to tell him about it, before. He was just opening up the goddamn conversation for Dean to come out and say it. _Somehow_ , Bobby has him all worked out, and it sure seems like he doesn't care.

“Wait,” Dean says, “Do you _know_ what I’m going to say?” 

“That depends on what you’re about to say.”

“Bobby,” Dean says, chest caving in, “I - damnit.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Bobby says, voice the gentle version of his rough grouse. The kind he used to pull out when they were kids and Dean was upset about some crap that their Dad had said or did, before he learned to just deal with it. Bobby was never _soft_ , but he was affectionately tough and open about it. He’d say _you’re a damned good kid, Dean_ in that tone of voice. _Sam, you get your ass here and appreciate the food your brother’s cooked for you_ when he saw right through Dean’s game face. _You do whatever the hell it is that’s right for you, Dean, damn whatever your Daddy thinks._.

Bobby singer is a good man. Not only will he not give a damn, but he _wants_ Dean to come out and say it. That’s what that tone of voice means. That's an invitation.

_It’s okay, Dean_. 

“Cas - he’s a dude. The guy I was seeing. I, sometimes I’m into that kind of thing. Equal opportunities. Bisexual.”

“Mmhm,” Bobby says, “Bout time we’re having this conversation. And I damn hope that aint the reason you screwed it up, because you’re worried about what _I’d_ think.”

It feels a little like an outer body experience, because those words just came out of his mouth, and it was fine. _It was fine_. Bobby carried on talking like it was no big deal; acknowledging his words without losing his shit, or even a note of surprise. He just… keeps talking. 

Dean's _not panicking_.

It’s… it’s okay.

“You _knew_?”

“Boy, I’ve known you since you were a snot nosed little brat and I’ve considered you half mine since a little after that. It aint because _you’re_ obvious, it’s because you’re _obvious to me_. Should think it goes without saying that I got better things in life to give a damn about than _that_.” 

“I - thanks, Bobby.”

“What are you thanking me for?” Bobby grouses, “I aint doing you a favour. You’re family, kid, and whatever you two think, I aint dumb. Your brother mentioned you’re seeing someone then refuses to talk about it, acting shifty as hell the next week. Sam’s about as subtle as a stab wound - don’t take a genius - and don’t go thinking I don’t know why you _really_ left Lawrence. Not that I aint pleased you’re pulling your head out of your ass and talking to me about it.”

_Bobby Singer has known for years_. 

He’s known for longer than Sam, even, and it… it didn’t change anything. Dean had no fucking idea that Bobby had him all worked out and he’s not… the knowledge that Bobby saw it isn’t sending his head into a tailspin, either, wondering what exactly it was that Bobby spotted or what he did that gave him away because…

It’s Bobby.

“Bobby,”

“I aint gonna insult you and pretend I know jack shit about whatever the hell it is you’ve been processing, because I don’t, but sitting on crap aint healthy and it aint necessary,” Bobby says, and Dean’s chest hums with something _good_ and _light_. “Not with me, anyway. Can’t promise there aren’t assholes _somewhere_ , but fuck them.”

It’s… Relief. A slight adrenaline-hangover that’s leaving him mildly hysterical, but this is _good_. Good. Really good. 

_He’s out to Bobby_.

“If you _knew_ , why didn’t you mention it?”

“Figured it wasn’t my damn business until you wanted it to be, though I _would_ have said something about your bastard boss if you hadn’t gotten yourself out,” Bobby says, “So. You wanna share with the class how badly you screwed it up with this Cas?”

“Uh, he chucked me out of my own restaurant,” Dean says, “After I told him I didn’t date men.” 

“Goddamn idjit,” Bobby says, affection built into every word, “What the hell did you do?” 

“Awh, Bobby, I _really_ don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean says, “It - everything got screwed up, but I wanna fix it. Not … not with _Cas_. That’s - pretty fucking sure that’s shot to hell - but uh, everything else.”

“Well, okay then,” Bobby says, “Oh, and you better add having this damn conversation with Ellen to your list, because I ain’t passing on the memo.”

“Yeah, that is so not happening tonight. I need a fucking drink. Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, blinking a few times before tightening his grip on his beer. He is _out_ and the apocalypse hasn’t actually started, but this whole damn conversation is three states away from his comfort zone, and he doesn’t really know what to do with his nervous energy. 

How the hell he’s supposed to _feel_ right now.

Dean stands up and starts pacing his kitchen.

Damnit.

“Have you considered giving yourself a damn break instead of telling yourself you should have it all worked out?” Bobby asks, cutting through the steadily increasing noise in his head. Compared to most of the past two months, this barely classifies as _freaking out_. He’s been so clogged up on panic and adrenaline that he’s never goddamn relaxed, but this is still - 

It’s a _big_ fucking deal. He said the word _bisexual_ out loud without immediately bursting into flames. To _Bobby_.

_Out loud_. 

With real freaking words.

The kind that are _in the dictionary_.

“Pretty damn sure I should have worked _something_ out by now.”

Dean Winchester said the word _’bisexual’_ out loud, to a human-freaking-being. 

“Sounds to me like you have,” 

“I just - I got no idea what I'm doing.”

_It’s okay, Dean_. “News flash, princess, no one has a damn clue what they're doing,” Bobby says, “I ain't saying it's fun, but that's life.” 

“I, maybe.”

“No maybe about it,” Bobby says, “You think your brother knows what the hell he's doing just cause he’s got that smarmy ass degree? That this boy of yours _meant_ to lose his cool and chuck you out of your own damn restaurant?”

“To be fair, the guy didn't know it was my restaurant until he saw my picture on the damn menu. He's, uh, a food critic. Trash talked my garlic bread on the internet.”

“He's _what_ , now?”

“Just don't read the Stanford fucking Daily’s food column.”

“Well, shit,” Bobby says, “You know how to pick ‘em.”

“It was mostly an accident.”

“ _That_ I don't doubt.”

“Bobby - I hate my dumbass restaurant,” Dean exhales, pausing in his his facing of his stupid, poxy kitchen is apartment and looking at the pictures on his fridge. Sam graduating three times over. His Mom. Both him and Sam in front of the Impala. 

The crazy-ass blowing-his-goddamn-mind part of all of this is that _that_ felt like just as much of a confession as the last one.

He actually _has_ made progress with all of this. 

“Then change it, y’idjit.”

It sounds _so simple_ when Bobby puts it like that, but none of this has ever been simple. It’s all so goddamn complicated and interwoven with every single part of his _life_. He figured that it was all… isolated. That there was his restaurant, then Sam, then that whole unacknowledged part of him that occasionally hung out in gay bars, but they were all -- separate. Boxed up. Sixteen sub-closets in his closet, except the crap he shoved in his sock drawer started spilling out of his coat rack and now it’s all so goddamn muddled that he has no idea where it was _supposed to go_ in the first place - and he hates it. 

He hates every single fucking part of it. 

_Then change it_ >

“How?”

“Hell if I know. I don't know a damn thing about your business, but it is _your business_. “

“But - what do I change?”

“Gee, I don't know Dean, maybe whatever it is that you hate about it?” Bobby says, affectionately pissed off and goddamn brilliant. Bobby Singer is the best damn thing that ever happened to him and… and that whole conversation when Dean has to spill his guts and talk about _that_ is done.

Talking about it as a known-entity is much better than dragging it out into the light.

“I don't _know_ what it is I hate.”

“Do I look like Dr Phil to you?”

“Kinda”, Dean says, “If he was older and less successful.”

“Jackass.” 

“You should come visit Bobby,” 

“Awh, hell, now you're being needy.”

“That's what you get for putting out.”

“That what you say to all the boys?”

“Way too soon,” Dean snorts, grip steadfast and solid on his beer, which is frankly a fucking miracle. Bobby just _made a joke_ about this, and he didn’t even nearly-drop anything. “Way too fucking soon.”

“Don’t know that we can call anything about this conversation _too soon_ ,” Bobby throws back, “I’d say about a decade overdue, maybe.”

“You wanna get _cute_ , I’m gonna hang up on you right now.” 

“Well, before we get into a damn argument about whose gonna hang up first -” 

“ - don’t _tempt_ me, Bobby.”

“ - _and_ while we’re doing girl talk… I don’t give a damn that _you_ think you’ve screwed up, I am damn proud of you, son, and anyone who thinks otherwise can kiss my ass.”

“Thanks for the offer, Bobby, but you’re really not my type.” He feels kind of lightheaded as the words come out of his mouth, because… because, if he really has to _feel_ like this, then he definitely doesn’t have to joke about it. It’s not even a humour as a defence mechanism thing, really, because he doesn’t need to defend anything when it comes to _Bobby_ , it’s just… it just came out of his mouth. He just _made a goddamn joke_ about all of it like it’s no big deal. Like he knows what the ever-loving-fuck he’s doing with his life. 

“ _Balls_ , now I really _am_ hanging up to get that out of my head, you goddamn idjit.” 

Bobby’s true to his word, but he does sent Dean through a list of visit-dates a couple of minutes later. 

And… and he feels pretty… good, probably. _Light_ , but untethered. Like he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing this side of the starting gate, but that he’s pretty sure he wanted to be part of the race. There’s unspent adrenaline humming in his veins and the relief of it is kind of winding. He can’t quite _breathe_ ; it’s not a panic attack, but he’s damned sure that he couldn’t _sit still_ or concentrate on anything for a really long time, and his brain is probably oxygen deprived and about to malfunction. 

He needs to _go somewhere_ or _do something_ that isn’t sit in this apartment and run through every single word that Bobby said in that phone call. 

Cas… Cas hasn’t text back. 

Charlie’s replied saying that she’s sorted everything for the restaurant to be closed on Thursday with sixteen follow up question marks, but he hasn’t got a damn thing from Cas. 

He probably shouldn’t have expected to. 

_What are you doing tonight?_ He types out to Charlie, as he resumes pacing his kitchen for somewhere to channel the weird energy that’s currently flooding through his everything.

He’s _out_. Mostly by goddamn accident, but some of that was on purpose.

Charlie replies to tell him that it’s her Dungeons and Dragons night at her flat.

_Freaking nerd_ Dean writes back, as he pours himself a whiskey that he hopes will cool his goddamn jets. Holy _shit_ but he is wired right now, like he’s injected sugar straight into his veins, or had three Red Eyes in a goddamn row. He needs to _do something_ with this weird, quasi-giddy feeling of release stroke mild-insanity.

_you wanna come join?_

Dean looks at the message for a long time and -

That's so far up the list of crap that Dean Winchester does not do that he shouldn't even consider it but... But he's alone in his goddamn appartment and _Cas has ignored his apology text_ and he just had a conversation he's had nightmares about for years. In real life. And -- this is far beyond _Cas_ , because... This is for Dean. For his goddamn menu and his life and the reorganisation of his internal filling system, and he doesn't want to be alone just in case the paralyzing fear kicks in.

He.... He always thought it sounded kind of fun, at least in the confines of his own head.

And then he decides _fuck it_ and tells her he’ll be there in fifteen minutes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The great thing about fanfic is that it didn't matter that Bobby hasn't been in it this whole time because you all know him and care about him already :)


	14. Chapter 14

The problem with actually achieving your life dream, is that a lot of the time it doesn’t feel that dreamy when you’ve got the background running of the restaurant buzzing round your head all the damn time: the negotiations with the suppliers, freaking payroll, the specials, how booked up they are, whether it's all tanking while he's not there. He can't think past it, or behind it, but-

But right now his restaurant is _closed_.

It's costing him, obviously, but he can deal with that (as long as he doesn’t think about the numbers that much because holy-fucking-shit), because his head is almost clear for the first time since they freaking opened. He’s still a basket case with more issues that he knows how to _count_ but it’s seven AM, he’s awake and there’s absolutely nothing driving him out of bed except coffee. 

_He can think._

He calls Sam.

“Sam, I need a favour -”

“Right _now_?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, topping off his mug of coffee, phone wedged under his ear as he heads back to his bedroom. “I'm trying to get rid of things in my life that I hate, so if you could swing by some place to get a damn haircut on your way back from finishing kicking the bar’s ass that would be awesome.”

He can have a _lie in_.

“You're an asshole.”

“That I am, little brother. You're gonna kill it, Sammy,” Dean continues, rearranging his pillows before slumping back into bed. The restaurant is _closed_ ; no kitchen prep, no Marv, no goddamn food critics. 

“I - thanks.”

“Hey - don't psych yourself out. You're Sam goddamn Winchester and you're gonna be a lawyer, this is just - box ticking.” 

“It's a big box, Dean.”

“Like law school was a synch. You got this. And hey - I'll buy you a drink tonight to celebrate your two days of freedom. And Jess for putting up with your ass.” 

“You're not working tonight?”

“Nope,” Dean says, shutting his eyes. He can’t remember the last damn time he got back into bed. Well, he can, but not -- not without _Cas_. Not _alone_. Not because he actually wants some goddamn sleep, just… other reasons. Other reasons that he really doesn’t need to think about while on the phone to his brother, or actually _at all_ , because Cas hasn’t replied to his last text, so -

“Okay, great. I need to -”

So it’s pretty obvious that he’s not _going_ to get anything from Cas. 

He kind of gets it, because there’s not been one person in this whole shit show that hasn’t readily admitted that Dean fucked up and Dean’s not trying to claim otherwise, but Cas said that _Dean had a reason for this pace_ and that he was okay with that. Dean said that the crap Dean was keeping from wasn’t about _them_ and Cas said they could talk about later. It’s not like the guy didn’t freaking dig, but then he backed off. He was so goddamn respectful about Dean’s boundaries the whole time, and then he just… flipped the goddamn switch and maybe, _maybe_ if they’d met at Dean’s apartment to have that fucking conversation then Dean wouldn’t have lost his head, that much. Maybe if he hadn’t said all that crap on his blog, Dean would have freaking apologised rather than landing on his usual defence mechanism of _lashing out_ like a fucking idiot. There’s a good goddamn chance that Dean would have fucked it up whatever which way, but Cas — he didn’t exactly make it easy.

It’s not that Dean thinks he _deserves_ for Cas to make it easy on him, it’s just that Dean kind of thought that he would, anyway. 

“ - enter the Sam-zen mode. Got it. I'll call you later, Sammy.”

“Okay, great and… Dean,” Sam says, “Thanks.”

_Then change it, y’idjit._

“No problem,” Dean says, hanging up and dropping his phone onto the other side of his bed. He’s got crap to do today, but none of it has to be done _right now_ , which means he gets to take a goddamn breath. Recuperate. Take a fucking break. 

_Except_ the whole reason he doesn’t do that is because the second he stops, every single thing he’s running from _catches the fuck up_ , sits on his lungs and crushes him. 

_John Winchester, Alistair, his fucking autumn menu, Marv._

Cas. 

And to top off the shitty deconstructed sundae of his life, his bed isn’t even _comfortable_. That's not new information. He wound up with this bedroom and this shitty mattress after losing a damn rock paper scissors match with Sam and never swapped them after Sam moved out. It's springy and crappy as hell, but usually he's so dead on his feet that he doesn't care. After ten hours in the kitchen he could sleep on a damn rock. Sleep is a stop gap he engages in inbetween work, so he just never changed it. Cas… Cas complained about it, about most of the crap furniture in the apartment, and he wasn't _wrong_. His sofa gives him back ache, his kitchen table is wedged off the floor with a wad of cardboard to stop it wobbling and his coffee table is so damn ugly that even Bobby- who hasn't bought new furniture in Dean's lifetime - bitched at him about replacing it last time he was here. 

Cas said it on their first morning after. Dean doesn't have the kitchen of a man who cooks.

_Hate something, change something._

Dean orders himself a memory foam mattress topper on his phone, drains his coffee and gives up on the whole concept of a lie in. His apartment sucks about as much as his whole fucking life and any divine inspiration about how to make anything suck _less_ isn’t going to come from _here_. He needs… out. He need everything to fucking change. He needs to do something.

He needs breakfast.

*

He winds up at the place that he and Charlie usually get coffee between the end of lunch service and the beginning of dinner service prep, where Dean accidentally blurted out that crap about _sexless sleepovers_ , half a block away from the restaurant. It’s less suffocatingly empty than his goddamn apartment, which means he can stand to open his laptop and start trying to dig into his numbers while he eats his breakfast.

Marv is expecting an answer about the wait staff by the end of the week. The raging douchebag has sent him three emails about _why_ he shut the restaurant and _why_ he did that through Charlie rather than him and _why_ he said he’d pay everyone as if they were working, given how short notice his pulling the plug on this whole goddamn day was. Apparently, Marv’s the only person in a two block radius of his restaurant that didn’t get the memo about Dean’s personal bullshit, because no one else has bothered asking why.

_He’s out_. 

About freaking _all_ of it. 

And then he gets a fucking notification that Cas has updated his goddamn blog and his sort-of good mood is circling the drain before he has a chance to blink his way past the title. _Third Chances_. That's all he gets on his notification, but it's enough to have his chest engaging in this weird sinking-flip that makes him want to throw up and run away and call him all at the same damn time. 

The _one_ good thing about this all being out is that the panic that he's been choking on for months subsided, but now that’s back with a goddamn vengeance because…. What is Cas going to _say_? He wrote that Dean was a goddamn disappointment _before_ Dean blurted out that he didn’t date men. He ripped Dean to shreds in his last blog at the point where he was still willing to hear Dean’s side of the freaking story. Dean’s clean-up attempts just made everything messier.

_Get out_. 

Whatever it is that Cas has to say is going to be printed in the goddamn paper and a national freaking food magazine that anyone could read, with _Dean’s name_ attached. It’s - anyone could read it and see right through him. _Anyone_. Fucking Alistair, or even John goddamn Winchester if he’s still _alive_ and he can’t --- he can’t _stop it_ or change it or deal with it. 

Dean clicks _unsubscribe_ on his stupid fucking millenial asshat bulllshit-blog, and shuts his laptop before he can take in a single word of what Cas has to say about him. 

Dean Winchester isn’t a screw up, he just _screwed up_ , and maybe he’s made a total fucking mess of everything, but he can… he can cook, and he can make it up to Sam and Charlie and Bobby for dealing with his bullcrap, and he can clean some of this up.

Not with Cas, but… some of it. 

He’s paid for his breakfast and winds up buying groceries before he’s really worked out a course of action, then he’s letting himself into his restaurant and facing down his empty kitchen before his brain registers where he’s going.

He loves his fucking kitchen. Maybe it’s been making him kind of miserable and maybe he hasn’t been able to squeeze his way around the gigantic chef’s-block in his way, but he still _loves_ this space. Not the front of house, or his shitty office, or the stuff that comes out of his kitchen; but, his _kitchen_ , he loves.

Sam said that whole reason that everything Cas wrote in that first blog sunk under his skin and set up shop there is because Dean believes that all of it is true. That Dean _doesn’t like_ his food any more. That he’d diluted everything _Dean_ about this whole place to make it more palatable for the masses. That he was _so_ convinced that he was screwing it up that he start screwing up, and it all got so goddamn complicated that Dean has no idea how or when any of it started, or why he let any of it happen, when all it was ever supposed to be about was straight up and honest good burgers.

Back in Lawrence, or in any of those motels, Dean would play Led Zeppelin loud enough to drown out the mess in his head, and cook. That was before sixteen year old Sam Winchester fixed him with that look in their damn kitchen and said _you listen to Dad’s music, wear Dad’s leather jacket, drive Dad’s car, do whatever Dad says, Dean. Why should I listen to you when the only damn thing you do is suck up to the guy who dumped us here and left us to rot?_ and before he drove all the way to California with _when the levee breaks_ playing on repeat for hours, hands shaking on the wheel as he tried to process John Winchester’s clipped goodbyes and Alistair’s drawl as he said what a reference would cost him. Sam was an angry kid bleeding hurt all over the place, John Winchester took off, and Alistair - Alistair was a first class fucking _creep_ , and Dean still fucking loves Led Zeppelin. 

He drags the old as hell cassette player he fixed up with Bobby when he was fourteen and angry at everything from his poxy-office and into the kitchen, and turns up his _Sam - road trip_ cassette tape up to the top volume. 

He’s going to reclaim his mother-fucking kitchen, and his menu, and his life.

Mary Winchester’s picture is going up on the door to his industrial fridge, with Sam’s graduation right beside her, and it’s staying there until he’s dealt with the nagging, persistent worry of his fucking autumn menu. 

_He’s a goddamn chef._ A bisexual, messed up chef with so much goddamn baggage he can’t afford the excess fees to carry it all around, who _likes_ nerdy-shit like Dungeons and Dragons (apparently), with the world’s greatest, annoying little brother and his own restaurant. He is a goddamn _cook_ and he _can_ do this.

He called Bobby and used the word _bisexual_ , and he told Charlie about Alistair and he talked to Sam about his feelings. He can design a brand new freaking-awesome burger menu, and whatever part of his head that tells him otherwise can _shut the fuck up_. 

The first thing he does is cross through the picture of himself and the damn bio on the back of the menu with a new pen, because no goddamn way is he having that. Alistair is the kind of person who’d want their face on the menu, not Dean, and he’s kind of through thinking about him. He crosses out the word _Summer_ too, because that's not what he wants. He just wants good food. Shoving the extra factor of seasonal into his line of inspiration is what's clogging him up in the first place (along with the fact that _apparently_ repression isn’t discriminatory enough to work on the liking-dude-thing but skip the culinary-inspiration). 

He writes down _Charlie’s brunch burger_ and spends a good hour testing out ways of cooking delicate little hash browns that don't overladen the damn thing and whether seeing if he can make bread kind of like a bagel without the hole; bagel-esque burger bread, because _brunch_. He makes a bacon ketchup and poaches eggs, till he gets a plate of food that tastes pretty damn good. He needs to work on the burger patty rather than using his standard fair, but he's pretty sure he can make it work. He can make it good and freaking delicious, and his muscle memory is kicking back in. He’s done this for _years_ , and it always used to be easy. 

He may be kind of bad at life, but Dean Winchester can damn well cook. 

_You’re not disappointing, Dean. You’re not. You’re my big brother and I love you and I’m proud of you even when you’re kind of an idiot._

Dean scribbles out the title of every single dish Cas trash talked, and a couple more that Dean's avoided ordering for a few months, till his menu is stripped back to the basics; straight up beef burger, fries, side salads.

He crosses out the beef burger too, because fuck brioche. He only agreed to _that_ because Marv made it sound like every single person expected him to do that, and that's not a good enough reason. He always found it kind of douchey. 

He needs a few beef burgers, a lamb, chicken, turkey; few veggie options.

_Sam’s rabbit food turkey burger_ he scribbles down, for the lighter option; heavier on the salad, light sauce.

_Add more variety - I don't like burgers_

He adds Sam’s study salad into the non-burger section, scribbling down all of Sam's favourite damn things in a salad, with a dressing that Dean started making when he was a goddamn teenager so that Dean could stick eating the thing, too. First, he made it so laden with the stuff that it objectively sucked, but on good days, Sam would box it up and eat it for lunch in the damn cafeteria and say _my brother cooked this_ with honest to god pride. It was soggy from too much dressing and stuffed full of the cheapest salad-crap in the store, but Sam lapped it up like the weird health-freak he’s always been. Two sizes: side, main. Standard caesar dressing or Sam’s house dressing.

_I don’t give a damn that you think you’ve screwed up, I am damn proud of you, son, and anyone who thinks otherwise can kiss my ass._

_Bobby's heart attack burger_. That one's easy. Bobby's favourite dish, delicately moulded back to how Dean liked it before he let Marv twist things in his head. Change of cheese, change of sauce, delicate rebalancing of the onion ring. _Jess’ moroccan lamb_ he scribbles out - sweet burst of pomegranate seeds, paired with that eggplant sauce. Jess is a foodie; she likes flavour. She didn’t blink a damn eyelid at having physical proof of Dean’s not-straightness thrown in her face at Gabriel’s cafe, and she’s good for Sam. Sometimes he kind of resents her for monopolising Sam’s time, but that’s usually when he’s being an asshole. Jess is awesome. Anyone who loves Sam gets a place on his damn menu. 

Charlie's _even without red meat_ eggplant three ways, burger that he designed weeks ago. Charlie deserves way more than a double mention, for the dumbass russian accents alone. He’s got no fucking idea what kind of a mess he’d be if Charlie hadn’t been so damn understanding about all of it.

_Ellen's don't sass me chicken._ He’ll call her tomorrow, or at least… _soon_. He owes her more than a phone call, anyway, but he needs to ride the momentum of this _coming out_ train before the fear kicks back in. He doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to ever tank something _good_ because of _that_ again. 

He tentatively scribbles the name out of the house specials, and writes out _Dean's list_. There; that's enough of him in the place. Except, it is _his restaurant_ , so he renames their standard cheeseburger _Dean’s ‘it's a classic’ burger,_ and it's much easier from there. Kevin and Garth get their own dish. Jo. He spends a few long moment overthinking before he adds the _John’s choice_ ; he can’t pretend that he doesn’t care about whatever it is that his Dad thinks, that he wouldn’t still drop everything if he called out the blue, because he’s family, and that’s as much a part of who Dean is than everything else. 

He adds on a variation of the burger he made for Robin way back when, the first girl he ever cooked for. First girl he kissed, even.

The _like it both ways_ double stack just about makes it onto his damn menu, because it’s funny and it’s true, and if _Bobby_ can make a goddamn joke about it, than so can Dean. 

The garlic bread is easy. He bakes the garlic into the bread, too, because his fucking garlic bread is out and goddamn proud (even if he isn't, exactly, yet; out and freaking wary about it, maybe). The garlic butter is sharp and freakin’ delicious. He calls it _forth date_ garlic bread and tries not to think about goddamn Castiel, because that is _not helpful_ right now.

He takes the baby zucchini he bought while he was losing his mind and cuts them length ways; parmesan and garlic salt, then turns them into fries. For Sam, because Sam freaking love those things, except now they taste good enough that Dean can stand to eat them. _Because they're cute_ baby zucchini fries Dean writes, because because - 

Maybe it’s done, but… Cas deserves some credit for helping him to realise what a goddamn mess he is. Dean’s pretty damn sure he wouldn’t have realised how much shit he’s carrying around without Cas. His dumbass blog post was the kickstarter off all of this and -- that should be acknowledged. He kind of wanted to keep it, too, but that’s… that’s out of his control. 

_Cas’ grilled cheese_. He clicks his damn pen a number of times before he decides to goddamn commit to it. Three cheeses, like Cas’ Mom’s omelette. Sharp cheddar, smoked cheese, jarlsberg, maybe. He'll work it out later. Onion jam. It'll be awesome and buttery and worth the stab of regret every time he has to cook it. It’s grossy sentimental but, _damnit_ , Dean’s carrying so much fucking sentiment around when it comes to Cas, he’s not entirely sure he can help it, and that’s okay.

It fucking sucks and it hurts, but that doesn’t mean it’s not freaking happening. 

It’s _happening_. It _happened_. His heart’s bashed up and he only has himself to blame for it, but it still _happened_. 

Just because he doesn’t like thinking about it, doesn’t mean that _any of this_ didn’t happen. 

_Ramble On_ cuts out halfway through the first verse and Dean’s focus jolts upwards to find Charlie in his kitchen in one of her nerdy t-shirts and a chef hat. He’s midway through kneading the dough for a moroccan-style burger bun bread that’s probably-maybe going to suck, and he has no freaking idea _when_ she arrived, but he’s glad she’s here.

He could probably use a break.

“Dude, I’ve been trying to get your attention for like two whole songs - you’re, like _in the zone_ ,” Charlie says, leaning against the kitchen counter and blinking at the array of food strewn across his damn pass. “Wowza, that’s a lot of food.”

It’s _a lot_ of food and suddenly he’s freaking ravenous. He’s a little emotionally raw and running on his third pot of coffee and burger-fumes, but he’s feeling pretty damn _good_ about it.

“You hungry?” Dean asks, headed to the sink to get the dough off his hands.

“Uh, only _always_ ,” Charlie says, picking up his menu and raising his eyebrows, “Did you cook _everything_ on here?”

“No,” Dean says, “‘Bout half of it. Aren’t you supposed to be having a day off?”

“Uh - aren’t _you_?”

“Never said I was talking a day off, just said we were closing for the day. Two minutes, Bradbury, I made something for you, then we can talk about my work life boundaries or whatever the hell else.”

“You figured I'd come down here?”

“Uh, no, it's just for you generally - for the menu. It'll suck if it's not hot. Hey - can you get my laptop from my office and a couple of sodas while I finish up?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Charlie says, slipping into the back, “But only if you're doing the serving crap. I, unlike you, didn't come in on my day off _to work._ ”

“Roger that,” Dean says, flicking the pan back into hot to poach the egg. The rest will reheat okay and he has one set aside to take pictures of when he's done, but warmed up egg sucks. He plates up some of the baby zucchini fries and some regular old chips too. The Ellen chicken burger.

“So - you've been cooking,” Charlie says, when he brings the food out, pushing the kitchen door open with his hip. “Like - seriously cooking.”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Brunch burger, but all hours.”

“Oh - sweet.”

“Let me know about the bacon ketchup.”

“ Dude, did you pastry chef my hashbrown to make it this damn cute?”

“Uh, yeah, I was thinking like those laced pie tops, but with potato.” 

“It's like a potato hash tag!”

“Wow,” Dean says, “That -- that sentence actually hurt me inside.” 

“It is _so cute_.”

“Exactly what I was freaking intending,” Dean rolls his eyes, “It's also reheated, so -”

“ - And, damn,” Charlie says, through a mouthful, “It's _awesome._.”

“You think?”

“Uh, yeah,” Charlie says, pausing to pick up his annotated menu, “Wait, did you do the _whole menu_?”

“Uh- nearly,” Dean says, mouth slightly dry, “Another couple of hours.”

“I want to eat everything on this list.”

“Good,” Dean says, “because I'm gonna need you too, at least twice. It's not- I'm gonna take out the names, that’s just… planning stages.”

“Don't,” Charlie says, reading through the sparse list of desserts, which is later’s problem. He’s always been crappy at dessert. “Sooo… you take one of those little blue pills, chef edition?” 

“ _Charlie_ , I’m just cooking. It’s not a big deal.”

“Bullshit,”

“ _Fine_ ,” Dean says, trying hard to look unhappy about this whole thing, “I’m trying to reclaim my goddamn kitchen from my latent emotional problems. You happy?”

“ _And some_. I’ve been wanting you to do that for months. Did you read it?”

Right. _obviously_ that’s why Charlie hunted him down. Cas’ blog. 

“No,” Dean says, chest tightening, squaring his jaw against the onslaught. He’s not entirely sure that he can deal with the concept of Cas’ fucking blog right now, because it’s fucking complicated. He just put a honorary grilled cheese on his menu, when the guy probably wrote that Dean’s a dishonest, substandard, lame-ass fuck up in a national food magazine, and Dean _told him to do it_. He’s pretty sure that he’s pissed off, but he’s not all that sure whether that spills over to Cas, or stays entirely centered on himself. Acknowledging that _he has_ a lot of feelings about this doesn’t help him detangle what they actually freaking are. And… today is going well. He doesn’t want to _lose_ that because of whatever Cas wrote. “Maybe I’ll read it in the Stanford goddamn Daily instead.” 

“What?” Charlie asks, pausing with her burger halfway to her mouth.

“He,” Dean says, swallowing back whatever colossal overaction his chest is threatening, “He’s selling those reviews.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“Charlie,” Dean grimaces, “You - that’s why he wanted to even _talk_ to me. You were _eavesdropping_ , I figured you got it.”

“Do I _look_ like I have extendable ears at my disposable?” Charlie asks, leaning forwards to gape at him over the table, “For realsies? He didn’t _mention_ that to me.”

It takes him a few long seconds to process what the fuck Charlie just said, and then -

“He didn’t - what?” Dean asks, a stab of panic in his stomach, staring at her. He’s been doing a damn good job of not thinking about whatever the hell happened after he left the restaurant, but now he’s thinking about it, and Charlie… she _would_. Oh, god, Charlie _would_. She’d do it. _Charlie_ , what did you do?”

“Okay, _don’t freak_ , but -”

“- _Charlie_.”

“I joined him for dinner,” 

Dean’s stomach plummets. 

“I said _don’t spit in his food_ , I didn’t say join him for goddamn dinner.”

“He was alone and upset.”

“Oh _he_ was upset?”

“Hey, I came after you first, Winchester, and you told me you wanted to be alone. _Damage control_.”

“I didn’t ask for you to try and control my fucking damage.”

“Uh, that’s what you’ve been asking me to do for _months_ ,” Charlie says, eyes sparking with something dangerous, “ _Someone_ had to.”

“No, they didn’t,” Dean says, jaw squared, “You didn’t have to get involved in _my goddamn business_.”

“ _New’s flash_ : you got me involved!” Charlie says, “I’m not apologising, because I’m not sorry.”

“What else?”

“Dean,”

“What _else_ , Charlie. You didn’t just sit down, split some goddamn fries and talk about the weather. _What did you do_?”

“We didn’t talk about you,” Charlie says, “I mean, much. You came up, once or twice, maybe. And, um. I -- I gave him the tour.”

“The _tour_?”

“The Bunker: a history. Your office. The menu collection,” Charlie says, her voice picking up speed, “And, you know, I got Kevin to cook off the _original_ menu, before you got all -- stuck in your man-pain.”

“Did you _tell him_ about my fucking man pain?” Dean asks, chest pounding because _oh god, oh god_. Charlie and Cas sharing small talk about what a total freak-show Dean is in his own freaking restaurant and… all that _stuff_ Dean told her about his freaking feelings and his everything. 

The panic is back and it’s making him lightheaded. 

“Not …. directly,” Charlie says, “It _may_ have come up that you only came out to me on that phone call he overhead and he _may_ have been there when Sam came to pick up your car keys -”

“ - sonuvabitch, _Charlie_ , I cannot believe you pulled that shit-”

“ - Dean, I am _not sorry_ ,” Charlie says, loudly, “Not only are you my _best friend_ , Winchester, but I’m also _awesome_. I wasn’t going to just let you tank something because you couldn’t use your words.”

“He - _Charlie_ \- he’s already going to air my dirty laundry to the whole goddamn world, did you have to give him more freaking material?”

“He’s _not_ selling his review.”

“Charlie, he _told me_ he was going to do it -”

“- and _you_ said you didn’t date men, that doesn’t mean it’s not a lot of bullcrap,” Charlie says, standing up, “When people are upset, or under pressure, they say things they don’t mean. That’s _why_ I’ve forgiven you for the sixteen times you’ve been a total dick about this whole thing and _why_ I’m leaving right now before you pull any more dick-moves, when all I’ve done this whole time is try to _help you_ \--- and that’s _why_ I waited until Cas had calmed the hell down, then tried to salvage this for you.”

“Charlie,”

“And you _know what_ , Dean, both of you are total idiotic dorks, because -- it’s like _both of you_ are trying to communicate by food. You _cook it_ and then he goes all psychoanalyst on his blog and - I get it, words are hard, but you can’t base a relationship on a _metaphor about pasta_ , because sometimes food is just food. You got _in_ this rut because you cook rather than communicate and there was so much _stuff_ that you internalised so hard you couldn’t acknowledge it to yourself, at all, that it messed up your cooking-mojo but… producing an autumn menu and calling this worked out is like putting a plaster over a bullet wound. I’m _glad_ you’re cooking, Dean, but nu-uh does that mean you’ve fixed this.”

“Goddamn, Charlie, I am _trying_ to fix everything -”

“ - I _know_ and I am way-proud of you, Dean,” Charlie says, “But - I kind of don’t buy that whole _actions speak louder_ than words, stuff, but they definitely speak louder than _a burger_ , and words _actually_ speak, and don’t _get mad at me_ for trying to help, especially when I know for a fact it _did help_.”

He’s not supposed to be getting _more_ people mad at him. This is not the _point_ of today. 

“You don’t _trust me_ and putting my burger on the menu doesn’t make up for you being an a-hole, or the fact that you’re _still_ considering sacking one of _my staff_ without talking to me about it,” Charlie says, gesturing to his laptop with her eyes flashing. “This menu kicks ass. I hope you get it past Marv without him douching it up and making you sad again which - FYI - I would never do.” 

She takes her burger with her.

Dean stares at her empty seat for a good ten minutes before he forces himself back into motion and back to _cooking_. 

_Words actually speak_. 

He ditches his moroccan bread buns, because they can _definitely_ wait, looks at the photo of his Mom dead in the eye, and starts baking apple pies until his gaze is swimming and he can’t see straight anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing's ever thaaatt easy, right?  
> (and poor old Charlie's had a lot to put up with during this - please forgive her for her little outburst).


	15. Chapter 15

_Words actually speak_.

“Dean!” Sam says, swinging open the front door looking about as exhausted as someone _would_ after a three day long bar exam, with a slightly crazed look in his eyes that probably explains the four missed calls Dean has from him. “I've been trying to call you about drinks since I got out, then Charlie said you _shut the restaurant_. You haven't done that since you opened, what the hell -- what the hell is going on?”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, “Is Jess in?”

Sam blinks at him.

“No, beer run.”

“Good, I've got to talk to you about some stuff,” Dean barrels in, pulling his cooler bag further up his shoulder, “Hey - congrats on finishing the bar.”

“We don't know if I've passed yet, Dean.”

“You will have done,” Dean says, “Never screwed up an exam in your life, you freaking genius. Didn’t tell you I was shutting the restaurant because I didn’t want you to freak out, but - I need you to eat this pie, and I'm loading up your fridge,” Dean says, lugging his cooler bag in. “It's all labelled, and I need you to tell me if it sucks but first - pie.”

Sam stares at him. He’s _finally_ changed out of his study hoodie and he’s, not for the first time since this whole cluster-fuck began, looking at him like Dean’s lost his mind. He has been stewing in his kitchen all day, alone since Charlie walked out, so it’s not an unfair assessment. He's a little frazzled and he definitely smells like burgers, but he's pretty damn sure that he made progress today.

“You baked a pie?”

“Yep,” Dean says, heading to Sam's kitchen. “It's still warm. Here - ice cream.”

“You said you couldn't bake,” Sam says, trailing him from the door to the kitchen, a frown plastered all over his face.

“I lied,” Dean says, “Anyway, you know that. I've made you pie before.”

“What? When?” Sam asks, a little beary as he accepts the bowl of pie and the fork that Dean presses into his hands. Sam’s never _liked_ pie all that much since that thing when we were kids, but he’s probably too young to remember where that all came from. Dean remembers all of it though. Every damn thing about Sam growing up. His freaking tantrums and his nightmares and all the other stuff that came with it, and now his little brother’s fresh out the freaking _bar_. 

Sam’s gonna be a lawyer and, that’s mostly down to Sam, but Dean… he was the one who was there. He watched all of it. He cooked them through it.

“You were a kid,” Dean says, “Eat, Sam.”

_Words actually speak_. 

“Aren't you having any?”

“No,” Dean says, wired in the same way he was when he spoke to Bobby, only this time Sam is right in front of his face. It’s a different kind of deal. He’d never even envisioned having _this_ conversation with Sam, the way he’d thought about the coming-out talk with Bobby, but it’s still a big fucking deal, emotionally. “Please. Just eat it.”

“Okay, fine.” Sam says, picking up his fork. Dean watches him take the first bite feeling about as vulnerable as he’s ever been, because maybe a lot of the time a burger is just a burger, but _pie_ has always meant something. Sam swallows. Almost smiles in that way that means its _good_ ; that exact expression that Dean’s spent half his life chasing. “This is - really good, Dean. And the ice cream, this is… great.”

_Thank god_.

“Can't believe you don't remember me cooking you pie.”

“Dean, you cooked a lot,” Sam says, “Did I - did I not like it?”

“You were the only one who ate any of it,” Dean says, watching as he goes in for another bite. “You were eight, we’d just moved, again, and you… you hated your new school, so I - I cooked you this pie, and I told you,” Dean swallows, concentrating very hard on not letting his hands ball up into fists, “I told you that Mom used to cook us pie when were kids. Was just trying to make you stop freaking whining so I could do my homework, but, uh…. dad was home, and I hadn’t realised. I'd been too caught up in baking I guess, cause dad.... didn't like us talking about Mom at that point. I dunno if you remember that, but he - I probably wouldn't have said it if I knew he was there, but he chimes in and says _Mary had better things to do with her time than make you pie, Dean_.”

Sam stops eating. 

“Dean -”

“And, I don't know, was feeling pretty happy about this dumbass pie, so I talked back at him. Said _dad, I remember the pie,_ and he says _you remember microwaved, store bought crap,_ and he says _your mom thought cooking was a damn waste of time, Dean,_ and I… I was so damn pissed at him, Sam, and I wanted to prove something, I guess, so. I said _the pie’s good, Dad. Try it._ And he had two forkfuls of it and he said, he said, _that's better than any damn thing your mom ever cooked_ , except it… it wasn't a compliment and then he -- threw the rest of it straight in the trash. And he was right, about Mom’s pie. Got it pinned down to the exact brand she used to buy the year after you left to Stanford. Never bought it again.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “Dad was - “

“We had a fight before he disappeared. Well, _he_ had a fight, I just sat on the other end of the phone and took it. It was the usual crap - putting family first, why did I follow you to Stanford, all that shit - and then he said _maybe your brother sold out his family, but at least he did it to do something worthwhile with his time._ I'd mentioned the restaurant. That I was - doing that night college course on restaurant management and, uh, I hung up on him. I was sick of his bullshit, and I hung up, and - he didn’t call again.”

“You were _right_ to hang up on him, Dean, all of that is a load of crap -”

“ - I was sleeping with Alistair.”

Sam’s jaw snaps shut for a moment. 

“Your skeevy boss in Lawrence?”

“Yep,” Dean says, not breaking their gaze.

“Is there - anything else?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I know you're just done with the bar and you've gotta be sick to death of work, but - will you look at some numbers for me?”

“Of course, Dean. Anything you need,” Sam says, watching him with his eyes wide and serious as Dean’s ever goddamn seen them. He’s not _pushing_ , though. Dean figured he’d… he’d make him spill the rest of those stories. That he’d pin him down and talk about exactly how all of that shit made him feel, but he… doesn’t. 

And it's probably everything he ever wanted.

Dean pulls out his laptop and angles the screen towards him.

“Know you're not a business expert, but you're smart, and I - need a second opinion. Based on that, do I need to fire one of my wait staff?”

“What?”

“Sam, just look at it. I'm gonna load up your fridge,” Dean says, standing up again to empty the contents of his cooler into his kid brother’s fridge freezer. He left the names on everything for Sam’s sake and Sam… Sam will understand all of it. He’ll be able to see right through _Robin’s guitar lessons burger_ and all the rest of it and that’s… good. It’s _good_.

It takes Sam ten minutes to skim through it all, distractedly chasing leftover pie crumbs from his bowl with his fork in a way that makes something in Dean’s chest hum. He looks up after he's finished, frowning.

“So?”

“Dean, your numbers are fine, but it depends what you want. Your profit growth is a little lower and I'd watch that, because it's summer and people like eating burgers in the summer. You could probably drop your staff expenditure and increase the markup on drinks, because that's pretty low for a restaurant but, honestly, it comes down to what _you want_ ,” Sam says, looking up at him carefully, “I think - you told Marv to run the management stuff, Dean, but you never got him on the same page as you, and honestly the stuff he's done is technically business sensible - cutting down the menu size was good. Adding more tables. The wine list. Those things _do_ make a more profitable restaurant, but that's not what you wanted. This is your baby. You just wanted to make good food and now you don’t like it and… maybe that's what people are reading into, and that's why you've levelled out growth. Marv. He's thinking about the money and business and at some point you being able to step back and let the restaurant run itself which isn't a _bad thing_ , it's just not what you were thinking about when you hired him.”

Dean chews the words over in his head. 

“And - by the way Dean - you were doing fine before you decided you couldn't do it and took him on. Your numbers were about as healthy as they are now and I think your stress levels were probably lower. What you actually _need_ is to hire a sous chef, or to promote Garth, so that you're not working yourself into the ground trying to do everything, but Marv did tell you that too. You just didn't listen.”

“I _like_ running the pass.”

“Then do it when Garth’s off. Give _everyone_ a better shift schedule. I'm not saying don't cook, Dean, I love it when you cook. You just had this moment when you decided that weren't good enough to do this, and it was never true. I know you're not classically trained or whatever the hell else some of your competitors are, but you're twenty nine with your own restaurant. You did that. You saved up and then you got the financial backing and you're making a good living, Dean, and that's not because of whatever happened when you were working for Alistair and it's - it's nothing to do what Dad did or didn't think, or where he is. It's in spite of those things. _You_ are successful, at something you love and are good at. Of course Mom wouldn't have thought that was a waste of time.”

“Sam,” Dean says, throat tight, “None of us _know_ what Mom would have thought about anything. I, I appreciate you saying that, but -- Dad knew her better than all of us.”

“And he was a jerk,” Sam says, “And you know what, if Mom was here and thought that, she’d be a jerk too, because your restaurant is great and I think,” Sam says, slowly, “I think you should put pie on the autumn menu.”

“I - I need to talk to Charlie,” Dean says, standing up suddenly. 

“Dean,” Sam says, forehead creased in confusion, “ _Celebratory drinks_.”

“You pick a place, I’ll meet you there,” Dean says, car keys already in one hand, texting Charlie _meet me at the restaurant_ with his other, “Got a couple more things to sort out, Sam, then -- I’m all yours.” 

“ -Dean!” 

“ - Later, Sam,” Dean says, already halfway out the door, flooring it back to the restaurant. 

*

He calls Marv when he gets back to his office, because if he’s getting rid of stuff he hates, then Marv is ground goddamn zero. 

Firing him turns out to be both hella easy and one of the most freeing experiences of his whole goddamn life. 

It’s a pretty short conversation. Marv seems more irritated than surprised. He’s a raging _douchebag_ , obviously, but Dean hasn’t exactly been a good boss. He’s ignored pretty much everything the guy has said for the past six months and every concession he _has_ made he fought tooth and nail against it before he gave in. It can’t have been _fun_ for Marv, either and - 

_\- why the hell has he put his staff through this for so long?_

But _it’s done_. 

He elects not to work his notice period. 

*

“ _Look_ ,” Charlie says, as she bursts back into the restaurant, where Dean’s taken over three whole four-top tables with paperwork, annotated versions of his half finished new-menu post-it noted with his supplier’s details and the apartment listings he printed on a whim. _Words actually speak_. “I didn’t mean to tell him about the closeted thing, okay? I thought it had already come up in your conversation and then it came out my mouth, but - Dean, I really think it helped. If he _understood_ then -”

“- Charlie,” Dean interjects, pinching his brow as he looks up at her, “Didn’t actually call you in to talk about that.”

“ - _I just want you to live happily ever after_.”

“I,” Dean begins, eyebrows raising, “Wow. I… I have no idea what to even say to that.”

“Dean,”

“This is _work_ talk, Bradbury,” Dean says, flipping his laptop shut to look up at her. “Trying to reclaim my goddamn kitchen and apparently I can’t fix everything by cooking, so…”

“Dean, _fire Marv_ ,” Charlie says, voice hot and quick, “ _Fire him_ and let me help. I figured you’d get there yourself, but...you already _act_ like I’m your partner most of the time, and, you know, I’m seriously cheaper than Marv and - I think I’d rock at it.” 

“You’re kind of stealing my thunder here, Charlie”

“What?” 

“Charlie,” Dean says, “I fired him, like, thirty minutes ago.” 

Charlie smiles, wide excitable, and _that_ is a good of a confirmation of any that this is a good freaking decision. Anything that makes Charlie smile like she’s watching A Very Potter Musical officially counts as _totally awesome_. He didn’t actually think he could feel _better_ about firing Marv until right this freaking second. 

“This is the best thing that’s happened to me since I ate your brunch burger three hours ago.”

“How would you feel,” Dean says, weighing the words up in his mouth, “About a promotion?”

Charlie sits down and fixes her gaze on his, for all the world like she didn’t just suggested the same freaking thing thirty seconds ago.

“I have conditions,” Charlie says, eyes sparking, hands folding over each other as she faces him across the table.

“Okay,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows, “Shoot.”

“Number one,” Charlie says, dragging Dean’s most annotated menu towards her side of the table and running a thumb over the note he scribbled the rough composition _Charlie’s Brunch Burger_. He needs to cook it another three dozen times to really fine tune it, but… it’s good. He knows it’s damned good. “You leave the names on the menus. It's good. People will like it it.”

That’s _exposure_ of a lot of personal crap, but Cas’ blog is proof that he’d been doing that with his damn food anyway. At least this is the stuff he _wants_ to share.

“Fine.”

“Number two - we're shutting the place for a week and we're redecorating so damn hard. That booth squashed in the corner needs to go because, _seriously_ , no one fits there.”

“Already built into my ten week plan, Bradbury,” Dean throws back, gesturing at one of the other scraps of paper. “Let’s pick out goddamn china patterns.” 

“Okay - point two, sub condition, _while_ the restaurant is shut, you're taking me to a beach, my choice.”

“Your choice?”

“My choice in California,” Charlie corrects, leaning forward to fix her with those eyes, “It's summer, dude, take a vacation. Or take a daycation. Road trip.”

“It's not a road trip if you don't cross state lines, but fine,” Dean concedes. As conditions go, it's not exactly the worst. He can’t reasonably refuse on the basis of hanging out with his best goddamn friend. If clearing his schedule for today has taught him anything, it’s that he _probably_ needs a damn life. He’s spent more hours in his kitchen than his apartment on his _day off_ and that’s almost definitely not healthy. “Daycation is-a-go.”

“I pick the music.”

“No chance in hell,”

“Fine,” Charlie gives in, “Okay, point _three_ \- you hire a sous chef and no one works more than six days in a week ever again, unless there’s some kind of emergency, and especially you.” 

“How many points do I have to agree to here?”

“There’s four,” Charlie says, “You’re not superhuman, Winchester. You need a break.”

“I will _make efforts_ to find a goddamn sous chef.”

“If someone qualified and not a dickbag applies, you _will_ hire them.”

“I - fine,” Dean says, “But _I_ decide who is and who isn’t a bag of dicks.”

“Deal,” Charlie says, “And, point four.”

“Hit me.”

“You forgive me for butting in with Cas.”

Dean squares his jaw and swallows.

Right now, he’s not even a little bit sure if he’s _pissed_ and definitely doesn’t know where he’s directing that anger. Inwardly, definitely, but… the concept of Charlie spilling Dean’s goddamn soul isn’t his idea of a good time.

“I’ve got conditions too,” Dean says.

“I’m listening,” Charlie says, refolding her hands to lean incrementally closer. 

“Number one - you don’t stop calling me out on my bullshit,” Dean says, counting it out on this thumb and leveling his gaze with her.

“Yes, yes and a thousand times yes.”

“Number _two_. You’re buying me lunch on this beach-date.”

“Fine,” Charlie says, “But you’re getting the ice cream.”

“Hey,” Dean says, “These are _my_ conditions, we’re talking about. Number three. At some point in this whole thing, we may need to fire someone, Charlie. Can you handle that?”

“Yep,” Charlie says, “Not a fragile princess, Winchester.”

“Never doubted it,” Dean says, swallowing, “But you sure as hell care about _your_ staff.”

“Like you don’t, Mr I-made-you-soup-in-July.”

“Point,” Dean says, “Number four: don’t _ever_ cross over my boundaries like that again.” 

“Deal,” Charlie says, holding out her hand for him to shake, “Dean, I love you.”

“Right back at you, you total freaking weirdo.”

“Awh, _Dean, you looovee_ me.”

“Shut the fuck up, Charlie,”

“You _love_ me, Dean.”

“Right, you’re like the little sister I never wanted.”

“Wait, I’m _family_?”

“ _Yes_ , you’re my goddamn family,” Dean says, “Trying to convince Cas I’m not a totally asshat by feeding him my old menu and referencing my man pain is exactly the kind of shit Sam would pull and, for the formal goddamn record, of course I fucking _trust_ you and I’m…. I’m sorry for how bogged down in this crap you got. About all of it."

“Operation: happily ever after. I ship it, Winchester, and I take shipping seriously.”

“That’s looking pretty damn unlikely from where I’m sitting.”

“ _That_ ’s because you didn’t read it yet.” 

Dean lungs constrict uncomfortably. 

“I - that’s tomorrow’s problem.” 

“Okay,” Charlie says, “Can we hug it out now and be friends forever again?”

“Goddamn - get your ass over here, Bradbury,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes and standing up to pull her into a hug. Charlie folds into his chest like she actually has faith in him, which is a fucking miracle given all the dumbass stuff he’s done in these past few months, but Charlie _is_ awesome like that. Overly involved with no sense of freaking boundaries, but holy crap does she know how to get stuff done. “I - I’m gonna sort out your new contract tomorrow because, right now, I need to clean this place up and get the hell _away_ from this kitchen.”

“You got some kind of hot date?”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Buying Sam a drink. You coming?”

*

Sam picks a douchey hipster joint that serves craft beer and low-key makes Dean want to die, but it’s Sam goddamn treat so Dean’s just gonna take the douchy-beer that Sam passes him when he arrives and clinks their beer bottles together without insulting the joint (at least, until he’s been sat down for at least a whole minute). 

“Said I’d buy you a drink, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “And you also said you’d be here an hour ago. We got thirsty.”

“My bad,” Dean says, “Hey Jess - you look freaking gorgeous, as ever. Let me know when you’re done with this lanky nerd.”

“Will do, Winchester,” Jess smiles, wide and snarky.

“Dean,”

“Sam, you could’ve gotten Charlie a drink, bitch.”

“You didn’t say she was coming, Jerk.” Sam bitchfaces, “Not that it’s not good to see you, Charlie.”

“Well, whatever, I’ll get the next round now. Line em’ up, because my brother is a gonna be a goddamn lawyer _and_ I got my new, fresh faced restaurant manager, right here,” Dean says, downing half of his douchebag-beer, which tastes pretty damn good if he’s being strictly honest about it, and heading to the bar before anyone can comment. Charlie can catch them up.

Tequila is obviously the only sensible way to celebrate Sam finishing the bar and..., the other stuff. The _Dean stuff_ , because him actually making progress in sieving through the momentous pile of issues he’s stocked up is probably worth celebrating too. Not that he’s _done sieving_ , but -

Today feels like a a win.

He hasn’t had one of those for a long time. 

“So,” Jess says, after she’s knocked her tequila back like a pro, without blinking an eye, “New manager, new menu.” 

“Yep,” Dean says, “New freaking everything. How was the _bar_ , Sam?”

“I am so done talking about it,” Sam says, taking his tequila shot with a grimace. “It’s done. If I analyse it any more I’ll lose my mind - hey, did you talk to Bobby? Because he’s talking about coming to visit.”

“Oh, yeah, we talked,” Dean says, chewing the words over in his head for a few long seconds before he continues. Words actually speak, and he used them. He dragged them out of his gut after _years_ of not doing it and it’s probably a lot easier to drop that into conversation now, then waiting for Bobby to mention it and for him to have another flailing incident. “ _The_ talk.”

“ _The talk_?” Charlie demands, slamming her hands down on her their table, “You had _the_ talk with your substitute father figure? That’s the best thing that’s happened to me since you fired Marv.”

“Yep,” Dean says, and that’s a good cue to take his goddamn shot, knock it back and set it down the empty glass on the table with a click, “Done.”

“I - seriously? When?” 

“Monday,”

“It’s _Thursday_!” Charlie declares, “When were you going to tell us?”

“Now I have to come out about coming out? That’s like _coming out_ inception.” 

“Dean - that is _great_ ,” Sam beams.

“Mazel tov,” Jess smiles.

“Gonna call Ellen tomorrow night. You think I can get away with texting Jo?”

“This is - this is _great_.”

“I get it, Sam, you’re happy.”

“I think we should get more tequila,” Sam says, beaming like a total asshole, “And those disgusting purple shots that you pretend not to like.”

“Uhuh, let’s freaking _partay_ ,” Charlie says.

“ _Best part_ ,” Dean chimes in, “I ordered a memory foam mattress topper. It’s going to _remember me_.”

“Congratulations, Dean, on your mattress purchase,” Sam says with distinct eye roll, “I’m happy that you took such a big life step and _bought a mattress topper_.” 

“Hey, fuck you Sam,” Dean says, something a lot like contentment seeping down his spine and settling under his skin. He’s got a kick ass menu and a kick ass best friend who’s gonna help him _run the damn place_ and he probably never has to look at Marv’s smarmy face ever again. Sam’s gonna be a lawyer and maybe marry Jess and Dean doesn’t have to police himself so goddamn hard, anymore, because… because Bobby knows and everyone else _knows_ and the world didn’t goddamn end. 

And Charlie seemed pretty confident that Cas isn’t going to sell the review. 

Not selling him out is a long way off wanting to work things out, his apartment still sucks and he’s still not convinced that he can face taking a long, hard look and some of the other crap he’s been lugging around, but...

_Today_ is definitely a fucking win.

*

He’s alcohol-loose and _happy_ when he gets back to his apartment, because maybe… maybe there’s still a long, long way to go, but he’s pretty damn sure he’s got enough fuel in the tank to get him there, wherever that is. Sam is relaxed and funny-as-hell when he’s wasted and he forgets, sometimes, how much of a _badass_ Jess is until she’s kicking ass at pool with half a liquor store in her gut. Now, his head’s spinning but he feels too _good_ to just sleep and Charlie has sent him a follow up text telling him to _read the blog!_ and she’s resent the link to him and -- 

What the hell. 

Cas writes _food is emotive_ and he writes _it absorbs emotion_ and he writes _that’s why I owe an apology to the Bunker for my previous review of the restaurant, which is much more about my hurt than their food (for those asking why I haven’t written about D, I hope that you will do the math -I am sure you can relate to a breakup that makes everything tastes like bile )_. He writes about a clash with the chef of the Bunker like it was offhand barbed comment, rather than a full on goddamn fight about their fucking relationship. He writes about Charlie showing him round the restaurant. He writes _I understand what it is like to wake up one day and realise that your life slipped out of your control_ and he writes _a restaurant is a labour of love that should be applauded_ and he writes _Chef Winchester, whatever it is that it that has crawled into the space you carved out and infected it - get rid of it_. He writes, briefly, about Dean’s food; about the two versions of the burger that Kevin served up and how one reminded him of some pang of longing from his childhood and the other made tasted superficially good, but lacks soul. There’s less metaphors. He doesn’t rip into his _anything_. He doesn’t say a single thing about their relationship but for that reference to a break up. He writes that the thing that has always frustrated him about this restaurant is that it clearly used to be _good_ and, at the end, he drops all his fucking pretences.

It just says _Dean Winchester - fire your restaurant manager, redo your menu, and allow your food to the be the medium of expression it was always supposed to be_. 

Dean smiles into his damn phone screen as he curls up in his crappy bed.

_Way ahead of you, Cas_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress! Menus! Farewell Marv!


	16. Chapter 16

“Where the hell are we going, Charlie?” Dean asks, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror and getting another revelation of _just_ how much she’s made herself at home in his passenger seat with her huge-ass sunglasses and her ice coffee, crossed legged with her phone screen pointed out of his sight.

If it were _anyone_ but Charlie, he’d been invoking the standard impala etiquette so damn hard, but Charlie used one of her promotions conditions for this little day trip and she’s done a pretty stellar job so far. 

“The beach, bitches,” Charlie says, “It's left at the end of the road, then straight for half a mile.”

“We live pretty damn close a lot of beaches, why are you - _sonuvabitch._ ,” Dean says, shifting in his seat to send her a dark look, before flipping his gaze back to the road with his stomach plummeting. _Goddammit, Charlie_. “This is - you're taking us to a gay fucking beach.”

“LGBT + beach.” Charlie corrects.

_God-freaking-damnit, Charlie._

“I dunno why the fuck I didn't see this coming -”

“- _Please,_ I slipped it past the net because I'm awesome.”

“You're a pain in my goddamn ass.”

“We can go to a different beach, if you want.”

“You -”

“Dean, I figured you'd work it out earlier, but… If you're not comfortable…”

“Beaches aint uncomfortable, Charlie, you get sand places I don't even wanna talk about, you get sand in your food and you - there’s a lot of sand, damnit.”

“Dean. Am I updating google maps?” Charlie asks, voice twisting into gentle as she waits him out. The familiar knee-jerk reaction of _get out_ blossoms in his chest, but… “You know, it is just a beach.”

He’s not _listening_ to that voice in the back of his head. He decided that. He _made_ that decision when he called Bobby and had that freaking awful conversation with Ellen, and when he fired Marv and shut the restaurant for a whole week for reneverations. It doesn’t mean that voice has shut-the-fuck-up (yet; indications are it should get easier), but it means that he’s built in an extra defence mechanism against dumb reflexes. 

_It’s just a beach._

Dean takes the left turn.

“Straight for half a mile?” He asks, shifting his grip on the steering wheel, “Then what?”

“Second rainbow to the right, then get your _bisexual on_ till morning.”

“You’re a dork and you’re _shitty_ at giving directions,” Dean throws back, “Has the decorating guy called?”

“Okay, dialling work talk back to _zero_ ,” Charlie says, “Because, hello, daycation.”

“Yeah, not a goddamn _gaycation_.”

“Hey, Dean, you just said the word _gay_ without getting all defensive. _Acceptance montage_.”

“Charlie - no _montages_.”

“Dean, this whole story is crying out for a _montage_ , baby.” 

“You are _such_ a dork.”

“You just want to be part of the dork-club,” Charlie says, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on her forehead, “But it’s cool, I invited you years ago.”

“I think,” Dean begins, chest tightening a little, “You were probably right about this whole day off bullcrap.”

“Please,” Charlie says, turning the music up - Dean’s music - because he’s not compromising _that_ rule, even if a lot his internal rules have been torn to shreds. He doesn’t _miss_ them, either. “I’m right, always.”

*

It’s too goddamn hot to be alive. 

He’s _used_ to steadily roasting in his kitchen, but at least then he’s got something to do to distract himself. Right now, he’s just propped on his elbows trying to focus on a book Charlie palmed off on him after he started whining about being bored, as he’s been banned from checking his work emails or calling the redecorators and that is pretty much the only thing going on in his life. 

“You think,” Dean begins, pausing halfway through a damn sentence of his book all by accident, gaze caught on a couple of guys in front of them. This is a _LGBT+_ freaking beach, and it’s… kind of fine. It’s _not_ that different to every other damn beach he’s ever been on, except that there’s a higher proportion of dude-on-dude duos that are definitely _together_ , but that’s not the whole picture. There are a few groups. Spatterings of people Dean would have sworn were straight as a goddamn arrow. Just, _people_. Dean swallows. “You think they know?”

“That you like dick?” Charlie asks, shifting her gaze to look at him, “Well, given that guy just caught you staring at him - yes.” 

Dean flushes and drops his gaze back to his goddamn book.

Fuck.

_Words_.

“I mean, _generally._ ”

“We're on an LGBT beach, so, you know, the base assumption is different.”

“But,” Dean says, swallowing. “On a _different_ beach.”

Charlie takes off her sunglasses to look him directly in the eye. 

“Does it matter?” Charlie asks. 

And, damn all the rest of it to hell, because he doesn’t have an answer to that question. He’s got no idea what he _wants_ the answer to be, because -- because, he really fucking misses Cas and that’s a dull ache in the back of head that’s he’s really trying not to think about too much, and he can’t _want Cas_ and still _want_ everyone on this goddamn beach to think he was dragged here by his badass lesbian bestie, and maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it just _doesn’t matter_ , but it felt like it mattered for such a long fucking time and…

He hasn’t got all this bullshit worked out yet. It’s not that simple. 

“I - honestly, I don’t know,” Dean says, looking back out towards the sea, “Maybe not.”

“If we’re doing _honest_ , then…”

“Hit me with it.”

“No one who's heard your _coffee is hot_ pickup line could honestly believe you’re not into the chicks,” Charlie says, propped up on her elbows with her legs stretched out, “ _But_ to the well-educated eye that could be seen as kind of overcompensating -- so, maybe, people in the know will _know_ ,” Charlie says, “But you _want_ some of them to know, you know? In case you want to _you know_.”

“That’s never actually been a problem,” Dean mutters, picking up his book again, trying to focus on the words and failing like a instagram chef and a souffle. But, getting _laid_ has never been the goddamn issue, it was handling it on the other side. Once he worked up the balls to actually look up a goddamn gay bar and _show up_ , his success rate was pretty good, if you could call any of that _bullcrap_ success. 

Cas… Cas wasn’t a total disaster, except for every single way that it was. 

“The dudes dig that whole flustered thing?”

“ _That_ goes away with whiskey.”

“That is six kinds of sad.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing, “Who you texting?”

“Your brother.”

“Why?”

“No reason,” Charlie says, stretching out her legs. “Next time, you should rock that sobriety thang.” 

“ _Next time_ isn’t top of my priority list,” Dean says, tracing a circle in the sand with his thumb and not looking at her. He’s about to say something about the thought that’s been swirling round in the back of his head now things are a little more _fixed_ , but the words catch in the back of his throat.

It’s not… it’s not like everything is suddenly _peachy_ and a-okay, but he’s pretty damn sure that he likes how the rest of his life is going for the first time in years. He’s a goddamn mess with commitment issues and masculinity issues and some barely-repressed _LGTB+ goddamn beach issues_ but he’s not actually a total basket case right now. He’s pretty sure if he had a redo now, he’d do better. 

_Maybe_ , maybe, he could reach out to Cas.

And then Sam shows up.

His _dumbass_ long hair little brother, in freaking _shorts_ , with Jess looking freaking gorgeous in a sundress and sunglasses. The fact that Charlie insisted that they came to the beach on a Saturday is suddenly making a lot more sense, because Sam’s in full summer-associate-career mode and Dean’s barely seen him since he started all of it. Charlie is one of the most ridiculous freaking individual’s he knows and _obviously_ she invited half his damn family to this gay-beach-experience. 

Freaking _wonderful_. 

(Except, it is, because he's missed his brother). 

“Hey - fancy meeting you here,” Jess says, pulling a beach towel out of her bag and setting it down next to him with a bright smile. Jess is too damn vibrant for Dean to be reasonably pissed at her about it, but _Sam_ is another thing entirely. 

“I'm doing an ice cream run,” Sam says, “Dean - rainbow or vanilla?”

“Jackass,”

“Hey, that's all they sell.”

“I'll take the rainbow,” Charlie says, “Viva la pride, bitches.”

“I mean you're a jackass for being here, bitch.”

“Awh, they just wanna support you testing our your bambi bisexual legs -”

“Charlie, you know that our Dad and Bobby used to take us _hunting_ ,” Dean says, shutting his book shut to raise an eyebrow in her direction. “ _That’s_ how I deal with bambi legs.”

“You shot bambi?”

“You don't shoot bambi. You shoot bambi's mom.” Sam says, the words rolling off his tongue on automatic. Jess takes her sunglasses off to shoot him a look. “What? I can't help how we were raised.” 

“Hey, Jess. Don't worry about it. This sissy couldn't shoot a deer to save his life. He backed out after tinned cans. And I would just like to point out that I'm here _under duress._ ” 

“We got it,” Sam says, “This was not your choice. About that ice cream: vanilla or rainbow, Dean?” 

“Rainbow isn't a goddamn flavour.” 

“Okay, one vanilla, one rainbow. Jess?” 

Goddamnit. 

“I didn't say vanilla is either,” He grouses, “Is there not anything else - chocolate? Freaking strawberry?” 

“There's strawberry in the rainbow,” Charlie pipes up, turning the page of her book without looking up at him. 

_It’s just a beach. It’s just an ice cream._

“Fucks sake,” Dean says, “Fine. Rainbow.” 

“ _Acceptance montage_.” 

“Don’t you need to put some more more sunblock, ginger?” 

“Uh, what about you, freckles?” 

“I hate you all,” Dean exhales, picking up his damn book again to have an excuse to ignore them all. He’s read the first page six times over and not got any further, but he didn’t exactly come here to catch up on his goddamn reading, so whatever. 

“Awh, but now we can pick you out a nice rebound. Now you've opened up the pool of potential, we got ourselves some options. What's your type -?”

“My type?” 

“Cas was dreamy.” 

“You don't need to tell _me_ that,” Dean mutters, the words on the page swimming slightly. _This_ is still beyond his range of comfort, but right this second he’s on a goddamn gay beach, an order of freaking rainbow ice cream in, wedged between his bestie stroke business partner, his little brother and Jess. It’s more _ridiculous_ than out of his damn comfort zone and… it’s okay. Most of his favourite people are here, it’s hot and he’s actually, despite it all, pretty relaxed right now. 

They can talk about Cas. Maybe. 

“There's an important question we need to ask, actually, to determine which of these studs are valid options.”

“Uh, no way are we fucking talking about that Charlie. Not in front of my damn brother, and also _not ever._ ”

“What's the big deal?” Charlie asks, “Brunettes or blondes?” 

“Asshat,” Dean says, glancing out over the sea and working out whether he wants to say the words that are running round his head. _I wanna see if I can make things work with Cas_. It’s a slim chance in hell that he’d even _wanna_ hear him out, but it’s - that what he wants. 

He really, really fucking wants to have a chance to explain. More than that. To freaking _kiss him_. Cook him dinner and find out what was going on in his head. Ask about that last blog post. Find out for sure that Cas isn’t selling his review and to ask him _why_. Just… to talk it out. 

_I’m gonna reach out to Cas. I want to talk to him._

“Anyway, uh, I was thinking I was gonna.. get in contact with Cas.” 

Charlie lowers her sunglasses. 

“You're going to call him?” 

“No. _No,_ that's way too freaking bold, but I was gonna - invite him to the restaurant after it’s back open. As a food critic, to critique my, uh, food. Maybe.” 

“As your food critic,” Charlie says, smiling at him. 

“You know he might not… show up,” Sam says, looking up at him. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, dropping his gaze back down to the sand and tracing figures of eights; round and round, “ _Yeah_ , I know. He probably won’t, but he didn’t -- he didn’t publish the review.”

“He didn’t,” Jess acknowledges, tilting her head at him.

“He still threw you out your own restaurant.”

“Sam, he apologised for that.”

“No, he apologised for that crappy review, and not _too you_ , just - to the Bunker.” 

It is just _perfect_ that Sam read that, because fifty percent of their fucking relationship is currently plastered all over his dumbass blog. 

“Not saying he's a goddamn saint.” 

“Dean, you were lying to him about a lot of things -”

“ - and I was _honest_ about a whole lot of other crap, too, Sam.”

“You were _upset_ , Dean. You're still upset. I don't stand by people who hurt you.”

“Sam -”

“-and,” Sam says, “If he didn't know about the restaurant or the whole closet thing, then -”

“ - His Mom died when he was seven,” Dean interjects, head swimming a little, because he doesn’t really _want_ to talk about this. Dwell on it. “That’s where his whole freaking blog came from. She used to cook and she died, cancer, and he refused to eat because he said everything tasted like grief. And I know that, cause we talked about it - about me, too. Sam. I just - I just want a chance to explain what the hell happened.” 

“Okay, Dean.” 

“Well,” Charlie says, flipping her glasses back down, “I am pro this course of action.”

“I am _pro_ Sam getting me this damn ice cream I was promised.”

The ice cream Sam eventually brings him is pretty good, even if the blue bit reminds him of that crappy blue cocktail Charlie forcefed him. Charlie nudges him with her shoulder and says _acceptance montage_ in a singsong voice. 

Dean rolls his eyes and reads his damn book. 

*

“I don’t know what kind of goddamn idjit decides to _move apartment_ the same week they have a business _reopening_ and launch a new goddamn menu -” 

“- _Bobby_ , I hear you, but I need you set your ass down and shut up, because I’m a burger away from a fucking _breakdown_ and you bitching at me ain’t helping,” Dean throws out, “ _Kevin_ , five top; two brunch, one lamb, one Bobby, one classic. Heard?”

“Heard, Dean. Five minutes out.”

“Okay, five minutes. Garth, that’s _three_ fries, one baby zucchini fries, one sweet potato fries, two onion rings and one side salad for my asshat little brother. Five minutes, Garth, and any changes to that ETA I need you to _communicate_.”

“You got jack in that office of yours?” Bobby asks, half leaning on the hatch as he assess him.

“It’s going that crappy, huh?”

“No, y’idjit, you just look like you need a drink,” Bobby grouses, “And I ain’t playing waitress without some of the good stuff.” 

“Bottom drawer,” Dean says, “But you aint setting foot in this kitchen without chef whites.”

“Back off, princess, I ain’t coming near your damn kitchen,” Bobby says, with a distinct roll of his eyes as he heads towards the back office. He returns less than a minute later with a glass he passes through that hatch with a tough expression that means _I’m proud of you_ and, actually, whiskey is exactly what he goddamn needs.

“Take the edge of your performance anxiety.”

“Bobby, you’re a sweetheart.”

“Tell that to someone who didn’t spend all day moving furniture.”

“A real _peach_.”

“Fly out here to visit and you put me to work-”

“ - _salt_ of the earth, Bobby.”

Bobby snorts and raises his glass aloft. 

“Here’s to you being as inconvenient as possible, kid,” Bobby says, and Dean can sure as hell drink to that. This whole goddamn crisis has been inconvenient and expensive. “And _when_ exactly in this dummy run do you get a damn break?”

“In about four minutes,” Dean throws back, setting his glass back down with a click. His _break_ is gonna last as long as it takes for him to eat the fourth variation of the Classic he’s had this week before he’s headed back to the kitchen to take on sides and garnish for Garth’s turn running the pass, but still. For that fifteen minutes he gets to enjoy watching most of his family tucking into the new menu. “ _Okay_ , team, next up, I’m out the kitchen. Kevin, you’re in the hot seat, Garth on meat, Bess is coming in to cover garnish. Dorothy’s pushing through the orders so you give her whatever the hell she wants, okay? I’m gonna be timing you from out front and I want _five minutes_ to the window, because it’s Mrs-freaking-Tran we’re serving and she scares that crap out of me.” 

The restaurant looks good.

The kitchen is running pretty damn smoothly for a brand new menu, even if they’re running on a skeleton staff for the dry run, and tomorrow he’s _back in goddamn business_.

He’s actually pretty goddamn _excited_.

“Walking with the five top -”

“ - coolio, Chef, walking with sides -”

“ Hey, Kevin, Garth, this looks freaking awesome. _Bobby_ \- I’m all yours.”

“Lucky me,” Bobby deadpans, “If you think I’m carrying all this crap to our table without you, you got another thing coming.” 

“Roger that,” Dean says, slipping out of the kitchen with a nod in Kevin’s direction. “You think it still smells like fresh paint?” Dean asks, as he grabs the second tray of food and heads out into his restaurant a pace behind Bobby. 

“Nope. Think you’re damn paranoid.”

“ _Every_ part of my goddamn life right now smells like fresh paint.”

“And if _that_ aint a metaphor,” Bobby mutters, “I got burgers.”

“Service with a smile, Bobby,” Sam pipes up.

“For _that_ you can serve yourself.”

“Have I mentioned that I _love_ you?” Charlie says, looking up from the comment card she designed and printed before they invited the whole damn staff and their families along to their dry run, ahead of the reopening in two days time.

“Yes,” Dean says, “And what do you _have_ to comment about, Charlie? You run the damn place.”

“My capacity for opinions never ends,” Charlie says, clicking her pen shut, “Hey, if I’m _family_ does that mean I get Bobby by extension, too?”

“Damn _idjits_ the lot of you,” Bobby interjects, “We eating this goddamn food, or preserving it for freaking instagram?” 

“You know what instagram is?” Sam asks, sending him a smirk.

Bobby mutters something distinctly impolite under his breath and, damn, is it good to have Bobby here. Not just because of all the furniture moving, but because having Bobby in his restaurant and in here is apartment is freaking awesome. Bobby makes all of this easier with his gruff, ornery affection and its’ _good_ to have him meeting Charlie and sampling the new menu. The hug he got when Dean picked him up for the airport. 

The face to face confirmation that Bobby really doesn’t give a damn that the he’s equal opportunities kind of guy. 

“This is... pretty damn good,” Dean says, after he’s polished off his however-many burger of the week while debating the seasoning at length and tuned back into the conversation to find _empty_ plates. Sam and Charlie have eaten nothing _but_ burgers for the past couple of weeks and he’s pretty sure that Bobby and Jess have had enough to be freaking sick of it, but they’ve put away every last crumb.

This menu is gonna work. It’s _good_. It’s more honest than he’s been without about half of his goddamn sexual partners and he’s gonna get questions about all the people weaved into the names of the dishes, but it’s _going to work_. There’s variation and inspiration; elements of fun, a hint of that foodie bullshit that means it still classifies as being _cuisine_ , without being douchey enough that he doesn't want to eat it. There’s balance. The salad on the menu is a relic of his childhood and a deconstructed Sundae would look more at home in a fast food joint than nestled between _Mary’s apple pie_ and the _Carry on my Waffles, son_. Kevin and Garth have both been tasked with a regular specials slot, so it’s not just Dean’s job to pull more ideas out of his ass, and so that their ideas are running through the place, too. It’s the most _Dean_ a menu has ever fucking been and that’s actually more invigorating than terrifying, just about. 

_It’s going to work._

“Hell to the yeah it is,” Charlie says. She’s written _’potato hash tags for days #potato’_ on her comment card, along with four other cramped notes about how they could better organise the servers, and _why the fuck_ didn’t he promote her years ago? 

It’s going _to work._

*

“ - I'm just sayin’, you could've bought your damn memory foam after you decided to trade up your hell hole apartment for some place I can stick being in -”

“ - Bobby, I've been working crap out.”

“ _Acceptance montage_.”

“Mhmm. Did it have to be in that order?”

“Play your hand old man. It's school night for little Sammy here -”

“ - Uh, Dean, I don't go into work at half five.” 

“Only cause they won't let you, nerd.”

“ _Right_ ,” Sam scoffs, sat opposite him at Dean’s brand freaking new kitchen table, in the kitchen in his _new apartment_ which has enough damn space for him to fill with pans and a spice rack or thirty dollars of take out, if he wants. He has _the kitchen of a man who cooks_ and his memory foam and coach that’s actually comfortable. It’s pricer, obviously, and every damn thing he owns but for five whiskey glasses is still in boxes, but - it’s good. Good. “Because you handled this week of the restaurant being shut with grace and decorum -”

“ - Food ain't _nerdy_ , Sam.” 

“D&D, Dean.”

“Shut your mouth, you _trekkie_.”

“You introduced me to star trek!”

“You two gonna stop bickering like an old married couple and play your damn cards?” Bobby interjects, eye roll on cue, as he glances back down at his cards. He’s got a crappy hand and Dean can read it all over his face, because if Bobby can read that he likes muscles and stubble about the same time that _Dean_ worked it out, Dean knows his poker tells. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, pushing his chips towards the centre of the table. “All _in_.”

“You ever get tired of being wrong?” Bobby grouses.

“Well Bobby, if cleaning you out is wrong, I don't wanna be right,” Dean declares, setting his cards down on the table and picking up his beer.

“Well we _know_ you ain't got a straight -” Bobby says, deadpan as ever.

“-oooh, hetro burn.” 

“You know what that damn hell she talks about?”

“Fifty fifty,” Dean says, “Charlie. You folding like I fold my cake batter?”

“Nuh-uh, Dean I'm _in_ like cilantro is in every thing you've ever cooked -”

“ Asshat.”

“Jerkwad.” 

“ - You two ever get anything done? I'm out.”

“Match,” Sam says, pushing his poker chips to the centre of the table.

“You sure about that, Sam?” Dean asks, “You know last time you beat me at poker was, wait, _never_.”

“Uh, three Christmases ago.”

“Kids got a point.”

“Jo through me off my game!”

“You mean you _struck out_ -”

“ - Well, ladies, I'm out,” Jess says, folding her cards face down onto the table. Dean is having a really fucking good day. Tomorrow they’ve got to go through all the comment cards from their trial-run to see whether they’re the only people who like the menu, but Dean’s got that Chef-instinct in his bones that it’s good. The last three menus he produced he’s been so damn crippled with worry about what people would _think_ that the first week after the new menu had him a nervous wreck, but now he’s actually _excited_.

This is what he wants to do. Both running his restaurant - actually running it, rather than letting it _run him_ \- and playing a dumbass game of poker with Sam, Bobby, Jess and Charlie like they’re a proper family unit. 

It’s a _really fucking good day_ and he’s definitely going to beat them all at poker. 

“Okay, guess we're calling.”

“Two pairs,” Dean declares, turning his cards over with a grin. 

“You - damnit,” Sam says.” Fine - I'm out.”

“Man _down_. Charlie, you wanna hand me your chips now and skip being shown up by your cards.”

“No way Winchester,” Charlie says, turning her cards over with a quirk of the eyebrow, “Because it's _good to be queen_.”

He is _not_ going to beat them all at poker.

“ - Sonuvabitch.”

“Man _down_ ,” Jess smirks, as Charlie sweeps up his damn chips. They’re using dried pasta because he’s got no idea which box his poker chips are in (Sam had to drive to his apartment to pick up the cards, but one of the many good things about his new apartment is that it’s closer to Sam _and_ the restaurant). 

“I - fine, Sam can help me unpacking, which is what we're supposed to be doing _anyway_.”

“Actually, Dean, you're right about it being school night,” Sam says, standing up and stretching with a half-smug that Dean definitely deserves. 

“One more round,” Jess says, pushing her own stock of dried pasta to the centre of the table without even looking at her cards, “And I am all in.”

“Your girl is going down,” Dean says, collecting a couple of the empty glasses and the bottle of good stuff that didn't make it past the first round of the game. Sam follows him to the kitchen with the rest, pausing to watch freaking Bobby, Jess and Charlie playing goddamn poker, like that's something he ever could have expected to happen. He has a lot of good people. Maybe he doesn’t have all the good people he wants if he could make those kinds of call himself, but he can’t shake a stick at having _these people_ being his damn family.

And they’re _proud of him_. 

“Doubt it,” Sam says, with one of his soft smiles that took Dean completely by freaking surprise the first time he saw one. Sam in love is kind of wild. He's still such a kid. “It went well today.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, dumping the glasses in the sink.

“You seem- happy,” Sam says, turning one of those looks in _Dean’s_ direction. Sam worries. He’s given him some good reasons to, but right now he’s pretty sure it’s unnecessary. Things are going well enough. Dean is doing _well enough_ even if --

Even if the more he works on fixing everything else the more space he has in his head to think about _Cas_.

“I,” Dean begins, “Getting there.”

“You know that’s all I want for you , right?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, watching as Bobby blurts out an irritated _balls_ that means that he’s almost definitely lost at poker. Charlie leans back on her chair and laughs out loud as Jess sweeps up the rest of the poker chips with a sugar-sweet smile. “I know, Sam.”

“If that’s _Cas_ -”

“ - Sam,” Dean says, jaw clenched, “That’s not _up to_ me.”

“I know,” Sam says, voice still quiet enough and Jess’ poker victory still raucous enough to block out the rest of the conversation, “I’m just saying - that maybe you should contact him,” Sam says, “If you want.”

Dean just nods, once, before joining in the collective effort to mock Bobby on his stellar defeat. 

Later, after Bobby's crashed out in his spare room, he swipes himself another beer and flicks open his laptop. 

He's _getting there_ , but there's still crap for him to do, and -

Cas has updated his blog twice since the Third Chances blog, which in Cas terms is the equivalent of disappearing off the face of the freaking planet. Both posts are… Not that great. Not as funny and snarky as normal, and none of the usual politics thrumming underneath his words, because Cas understands shit like that. Understands that Avocados are a political symbol; that sourdough says more than douchebag; that food doesn't exist in a vacuum. The last two pieces are just… Reviews of how some things he’s have eaten tastes. They're Cas's food reviews with the Cas taken out, and… If Dean had a damn thing to do with it, then it's gonna take a long fucking time for him to forgive himself.

_I am sure you can relate to a breakup that makes everything tastes like bile_

He… he wants to talk to Cas.

He _hates_ the fact that the last conversation they had was Dean flailing around, paralysed by his internal bullshit and unable to say even half of what was in his head. Cas didn’t make that conversation easy, but Dean was the one bleeding out bullshit all over the place instead of explain where the damn stab wound and… and maybe he’s overestimating the power of stripping back his whole life and trying to start over, but he’s relatively sure that if he had the same conversation now he’d do better. 

He -- he wants to _talk to Cas_ , so he’s gonna prize open that channel of communication again and leave it up to Cas. It’s Dean’s _turn_ , if he counts Cas’ blog post as a response to Dean’s apology. 

And if he doesn’t at least try, then that’s it. 

The comment takes a long time to write. He tags it on the end of _Third Chances_ , which is more or less an apology to Dean, but he keeps it in Cas style: about his goddamn menu, rather than about them, but freaking obviously also about them. _The Bunker would like to formally invite you back for dinner (on the house) after your carefully considered words in this post. We totally understand your frustrations around the restaurant and have felt them too for a long time._ Dean peels off the label on his beer and stares at the keyboard, chewing the words over in his mouth. Cas is the one who framed this conversation around the goddamn restaurant, but _hopefully_ , Cas will get it. This is about way freaking more than his goddamn food. _We've recently made some changes that we'd like for you to see if you have time in your schedule. We're pretty sure that you would find them to be an improvement on your last experience at the Bunker. If you're not available, no worries. We value the custom and your thoughts more than we can say._

Dean swallows and walks the length of his apartment. There’s _more_ he wants to goddamn say, but this is… difficult. 

_Thank you for reading our faults straight off the menu and thank you for all the chances you’ve given so far._

He hits _comment_ and snaps his laptop shut with his chest pounding, too keyed up to sleep for hours.

*

The restaurant reopening goes well. 

Cas doesn’t show up. 

And that’s just something Dean’s going to have to freaking deal with.

*

“Soooo - how was she?”

“Uh, kind of awesome,” Dean says, slipping into his office to find Charlie waiting for him. _Not_ cooking while the restaurant is open is both comfortable and really convenient for crap like interviewing for sous chefs and general business crap that has to be done within general business hours, like talking to the bank. “Pamela is _not_ a bag of dicks. Intimidating as hell and… kind of hot. Like, _really_ goddamn hot. Watching her dice that chicken - alarmed and a little turned on.”

“You know if you hire her, you can’t sleep with her, right?”

“She would eat me _alive_ ,” Dean counters, “And I’d probably kind of like it. Anyway - I haven’t decided.”

“We had a deal, Winchester.” 

“We did,” Dean says, “She’s just - _expensive_ so we need to crunch some numbers, work it out. Budget wise, we’re kind of -”

“ - wait, okay, there’s something I need to tell you before we get into work talk,” Charlie says, and Dean looks at her properly. She’s vibrating with excitement in that Charlie-way that sparks that usual affection and no one chooses to spend more time that necessary in Dean’s tiny office unless there’s a _good reason_ , which means… Charlie has news. “Castiel came by the restaurant while you were out.”

_He wasn’t expecting that news_.

Dean stills.

_Castiel._

“Cas,” Dean says, weighing the word up in his mouth. He hasn’t said it _out loud_ for a while…. And he - he didn’t expect Cas to show up. He _hoped_ , but he really didn’t think that Cas would actually goddamn turn up at the restaurant, and he figured after the reopening came and went that that was _their reopening_ coming and going without anything happening. He… he wasn’t _expecting_ Cas to show up in the middle of a lunch service on an innocuous Thursday. 

“He came?”

“Yep,” Charlie says.

“What did he… “ Oh, god. _Feelings_. “Charlie. _Talk to me_.”

“Mixed signals,” Charlie says, pulling up a seat next to him and quirking her eyebrows up at him, “He seemed a little relieved when I said you were interviewing and for a new sous chef and therefore _not_ physically present, which - not the best news - but I think that was, you know, the anticipation. He dug the new decor.”

“He - he come alone?”

“Yep.”

_Thank God_.

“What did he order?”

“I kept the ticket, so that when I'm your maid of honour I have the goods,” Charlie says, pulling it out of her back pocket. “So - slider selection - with Bobby’s burger, the classic and the brunch because, awesome taste, regular old fries, one coffee, water, and the pie.”

Dean’s chest tightens.

“He got the pie?”

“Yep,” Charlie says, “Paid card, white shirt and slacks, wonky tie, no haircut or changes to his dreamy stubble thing. Left a twenty percent tip.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“And Dean,” Charlie says, smiling at him. “He took an order of fourth date garlic bread to go.”

*

“We have another customer,” Zeke delivers, in his usual straight-up deadpan, through the hatch. Dean sent everyone else home twenty minutes ago, because it’s _late_ and he’s just doing the last minute clean up and finally giving himself some time to think through the fact that _Cas was here today_ which means that when he gets home, Dean should -- call him. Text him. Do _something_ , or…. Wait for Cas’ cue. 

Text him to ask how the damn garlic bread was.

Wait for another _review_.

_Something_. 

He needs to have a minor freaking crisis overthinking how they continue this whole _half_ communication in the standard medium of vague blog posts and cryptic apologies, or whether to break the goddamn mould and just ask to talk. The _last thing_ he wants to hear about right now is another freaking customer. 

He may have shitty work life boundaries, but now is not the time. 

“It's - _we're closed_ , dude. I’m wiping down this freaking countertop and then I’m done.”

“He wants to give his compliments to the chef.”

“Don’t care if he wants to give his _life savings_ to the chef, the _chef_ is going home to his fridge full of leftover takeout,” Dean says, not looking up from the counter, “Tell him to come back and compliment me in the freaking morning if he’s that eager.”

“Hello Dean,” Fucking _Castiel_ says and Dean promptly drops the bottle of goddamn commercial-kitchen strength antibacterial spray on his foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ClassicalECentric for the waffle name idea :)
> 
> I really struggled with this chapter, then realised halfway through that I'd had it in the wrong font, and it got much easier after that. Is that a thing for anyone else?
> 
> ALSO -- you will get Cas in the next chapter. Like, all chapter. I know he's been gone for flipping ages. Dean was supposed to deal with his crap quicker than he did :')


	17. Chapter 17

Cas looks incredible.

He's just _stood there_ in his almost-wonky button down, with his five o clock shadow and his _mouth_ and the sharp, ever assessing blue hue of his eyes and Dean's so fucking attracted to him he doesn't know what to do with it. It's the way he holds his gaze like he was never taught the rules of human etiquette and the swooping sensation somewhere around Dean’s ribs because, yeah, the weeks of not seeing him hasn't changed how much he cares about Cas one inch. He is really, really fucking into him, and here he is in Dean's restaurant - for the second time today- stood there.

_Cas came back to his goddamn restaurant_. 

“I- hey,” Dean says, mouth suddenly Sahara desert, overcooked pork dry, because -

Holy shit.

Ho _ly_ shit.

He never expected Cas to show up _again_ , today.

“Zeke - I got this,” Dean says, even though he’s currently standing in a steadily increasing puddle of antibacterial spray and every damn thing he wanted to say to Cas has fallen out of his brain which means he probably _doesn’t_ have this. “I'll, uhh. Lock up. You can - go.”

He doesn’t look away or even _move_ until he hears the soft click of the front door, his internal organs tying themselves in knots as he tries to figure out where the hell he’s supposed to even start..

“Hey,” Dean says, heart in his throat. He’s already _said_ that, but he didn’t actually think that he was going to get a chance to say it, so whatever. He’ll say two goddamn greetings. He’s just not sure what he wants to follow that. _I’m sorry. I missed you. What the hell happened?_ “You, uh, came back. What did, uh, you -- ?” _Words_. Apparently it’s not just panic that chokes him, or lying, or being closeted. It’s just Castiel, which is just goddamn fantastic. 

He needs safe ground. Ease himself into it. 

“Uh - how was the food?”

“Excellent,” Cas says, eyes sharp and fucking beautiful, “Truly, Dean, that mini hash brown was exquisite. If that _particular_ burger was the bedrock of America, I might find the pledge of allegiance more tolerable.” 

“You, uh - if you come back, you should try the lamb.”

“I debated it today,” Cas says, with a slight tilt of his head.

“And the -- the garlic bread?”

“I haven’t eaten it yet, but if it tastes anything like it smells I am sure it will make me very happy.” Cas says, “It’s all delicious, Dean. Light-years away from your last menu.”

He is _good_ at talking about food. He can do that. 

_They_ are good about that. 

“Yeah, I was - Chef’s block,” Dean says, eyes still caught up in _Cas_ , trying to project some of his bullshit feelings because… goddamn, he sucks at words. He’s just plain fucking bad at them. “I know it sucked for a…. A long ass time, I just -- I didn’t know how to fix it. Any of it.”

“If this had been your menu all along, I would have worked it out earlier.”

“If that had been my menu all along, I’d - I think I’d have told you. Tried to explain instead of…. Losing my head.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, brow furrowed, poised into serious and _here they fucking go_. This is the opening to the real talk. The main goddamn course. The metaphorical _steak_ in this whole chit-chat, and Dean’s not sure if he’s ready for wherever Cas wants to start. His intentions that night at the bar. The restaurant. The closet he’s been rotting in. “Are you standing in cleaning fluid?”

Okay. Maybe not.

“Yes,” Dean says, air rushing out of his lungs, “Yes, I am.” 

Cas smiles. He honest to god fucking _smiles_ like Dean’s cute rather than a total fucking moron, and _fuck_ , what is he supposed to do? His eyes goddamn _crinkle_ when he smiles and the tension leaks out of his shoulders. He’s _smiling_ about Dean’s goddamn flailing and dropping things and -

They need to talk. They _really_ need to talk.

“I can help you clean up,”

“I got it,” Dean says, finally breaking Cas’ gaze to look down the total mess of his kitchen floor, reaching for a tablecloth and vaguely mopping it up, attention very much on Cas. “But you - you hungry?”

“Are you cooking?”

“Well,” Dean says, chest aching, “Sam is trying to break me out of that take out habit, so you’d... be doing me a favour.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats, “Okay. You should - come back here. Talking to you through the serving hatch is too weird. Pretty sure Charlie showed you where it was.”

“She did,” Cas acknowledges. 

“You know I - I didn't ask her to do that.” 

“Don't worry, Dean, it was very clear that Charlie is a free agent.”

“I promoted her.”

“Good,” Cas says, still not moving, gaze clear and unrelenting. “She's a staunch defender of your intentions, if not your actions.” 

“You mean she said I acted like a dick all by accident?” 

“Something like that,” Cas says, finally _moving_ , his hands resting on the other side of the hatch before he pushes himself away.

“Wait - you gotta,” Dean says, stepping back into the depths of his kitchen and pulling out some of the spare chef whites and a hat. 

“Really?”

“I don’t make the rules,” Dean says, his own smile creeping on at Cas’ face as his expression. “I’ll, uh. Come let you in.” 

Cas looks equal parts incredible and ridiculous. Solely and wholly both, as he steps over the threshold of Dean’s kitchen with his ill fitting jacket and lopsided hat and then Dean really _does_ smile, because the guy can’t _warm up soup_ and now he’s wearing a chef-getup and the kind of bitch face that Sam would be proud of. In Dean’s kitchen. 

“Wait,” Dean says, reaching forward to adjust his hat, pulling it over the edge of Cas’ hairline so it aligns just so. He's close. Close enough that it would be easy to reach out and just fucking kiss him and Dean's pretty sure that Cas would kiss him back, too, because his gaze shifts to Dean's lips like a goddamn magnet, and he could have pulled away - put some distance between them - but he's in Dean's kitchen in chef whites, and Dean really, really wants him. His voice, his snarky blogs, his _everything_. 

He doesn’t get flustered because Cas is _a guy_ or because Dean’s been lying through his teeth, it’s because he’s _Cas_ and Dean wants to crawl into his fucking personal space and make a home there. 

“I've never seen you in your chef whites before,” Cas says with that _voice_ , matured whiskey and grit and so fucking hot, and right there, looking at him. “It looks good on you.”

“It, uh,” Dean says forcing his hands not to reach out and straighten it again, fall to Cas’ cheeks, pull him in. “Doesn't look too shabby on you, either.”

“Dean,” Cas says, pulling perceptively further away, that mouth pulling taunt, “Did I out you to your entire restaurant?”

Right. That's what they're doing here. _That_ conversation. Not nearly making out in his fucking kitchen. 

“No,” Dean says, stepping backwards and heading towards the fridge. They have leftover chicken, bacon, cream. He can make something _good_ with that. With a side of those hash browns. “No I - pretty much took care of that myself, by accident, talking about you the week before.” Cas settles against one of the kitchen counters and watches him. “You _did_ out me to Sam and Jess, mostly, at the cafe.” 

“Your brother knew about me.”

“He, uh,” Dean says, hands stilling at the fridge, “I said Cas and he - assumed that you were, uh,”

“ _Not_ male,”

“Right,” Dean says, swallowing, “And I just - I didn’t correct him.”

“Your brother,” Cas says, expression unreadable, “He assumed when he saw my name tag?”

“I - _damnit_ ,” Dean says, setting down the chicken, chest pulled so damn tight he feels like he can’t breathe. Why does this have to be so damn hard? He’s - he’s _ashamed_ of this mess and he really, really wants to be done with _shame_. It’s heavy and lingers at the back of his throat and he _does not want it_. 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice low, “It’s fine. I’m not going to kick you out of your restaurant again.” 

“Really?”

“I am emotionally detached enough to listen to you now,” Cas says, “Which is what I intended to do before, but - you may not know this about me yet, Dean, but I am irrational and rash when I am upset I _regret_ a great deal about that evening.”

Cas said _you may not know this about me yet_. He said _yet_ like Dean gets to carry on learning stuff about Cas. He said _yes_ like this isn’t the end of this whole conversation. Like tonight is something more than clearing the air.

And that makes it easier. 

“We - me and Sam, I’d… we’d had a conversation about it a long ass time ago. I mean, conversation is a strong freaking word. I uh, made some opaque reference and started talking about goddamn Donald Trump every time he tried to bring it up, but he, uh, had enough intel to piece it together.”

“Donald Trump?”

“ I - don’t ask. Jess didn’t know,,” Dean says, hands steady enough that he can pick up the chicken and the bacon again. He reaches for a pan. Butter. Cooking is still easy. Everything else about his life is freaking impossible, but cooking is easy. “I blurted it out to the staff slipping up talking to Charlie.”

“So it was at least _because_ of me,” Cas says. Doesn’t look at his expression, because he’s not sure he can deal with that grim expression he’s sure to be wearing. “That wasn't my intention. Please know that I would not have done that on purpose.”

“Cas- it's fine,”

“It isn't,” Cas says, “I have learned my lesson about not calling people closeted on the internet.”

“You’re really _not_ the person needing to explain their intentions here, Cas.”

“Perhaps,” Cas acknowledges and hovers too close watching him cook. _I’m sorry and I really fucking missed you. I panicked about all of it. I was just white knuckling it because I - I am really, really into you_. “I consistently find watching you create something _delicious_ from leftovers fascinating.” 

_Okay._ Back to goddamn food. 

“That’s how cooking works. How _real_ cooking works. Anyone can make something taste good if they spend months picking out suppliers and growing fresh herbs and all that crap. _Cooking_ is scrubbing something together with the crap leftover in your fridge and the things you impulse bought from Walmart.”

“Like baby zucchini,” Cas says, as Dean browns off the chicken and adds cream. The frier is on for the mini hash browns, which means there a few minutes away from eating, and they’ve barely _broached_ the conversation they’re supposed to be having. 

“Right,”

“Which is on your menu.” 

“I - Sam really freaking loves Zucchini fries. Freak.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, “You said you wanted to prove that you could cook.”

“Cas,” Dean says, mouth dry. “You know that -” _I liked you from the off, which was most of the goddamn problem. That I - still like you, a lot. More than I know how to deal with you._ “That a lot of the crap that comes out of my mouth is - well, crap.”

“This has been made clear at various points.”

He deserves that. He winces anyway. 

_Goddamnit._

“Dean, that wasn’t meant to sound like -”

“- like you’re pissed off?” Dean puts in, turning the pan off the heat and grabbing a couple of plates. He’s not looking at him. He doesn’t really trust himself to _look_ at him right now and he’s not sure what he’d even want to see. “You _are_ pissed off. You have a right to be. I get it.”

“Mostly,” Cas says, “I was _hurt_.”

Fuck.

God _damnit_.

He can’t _deal_ with that hue of Cas’ voice, because for all the crappy justifications he made in his head, he never really let himself focus on the fact that Cas _got hurt_. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The bullshit he was pulling wasn’t supposed to have consequences outside of _Dean_ , but then Cas wrote that blog and sat across him in that restaurant with that look in his eyes. 

Cas was never supposed to get _hurt_. 

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I know,” Cas says, stood too close, “Thank you for cooking.” 

“There’s a couple of chairs in back cupboard, I’ll, uh, season.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Occupational hazard,” Dean says, mouth dry as he plates up their food. He’s very aware of Cas moving round his kitchen. He’s used to having a whole goddamn brigade around, but Cas seems to takes up more space somehow. It’s like he controls fucking _gravity_ , and it’s freaking ridiculous. He just can’t stop _looking_ at him out of the corner of his eye. Absorbing him. Taking him in. 

“Here,” Cas says, straightening up the chairs. 

_I’ve been falling for you. That’s the damn problem_. 

“I wasn't talking crap when,” Dean begins, internally clenching his everything to make it to the rest of the sentence. He’s got their plates in hand and he really needs _not_ to drop that, but more than that he needs to say something about how he _feels_ to actually come out of his mouth. “When I said that liking you that much was an accident. That - that was the most honest fucking thing I ever said to you.”

“I know that,” Cas says, “Dean, the only way anything you did makes _less_ sense is if you had no romantic interest in me whatsoever.”

And that… is logical. Without the fact that Dean’s been crazy-in-feelings, all of this is just straight up _crazy_.

“Okay,” Dean says, sitting down heavily, “Good.” 

“This smells incredible.” 

“It’s, uh, a little clubbed together - but it should taste good,” Dean says, gaze swimming a little as he looks down at his plate. “I’m… I’m really glad you’re here. That you came.”

“Fourth impressions are important,”

“That what you’re gonna call you’re glowing review of my revamped menu?” Dean asks, fork in his hand. The chicken is good. Creamy and rich and _bacon_ is freaking bacon and Charlie is probably right about putting the mini hash browns on the list of side dishes, because half a plate of them is freaking awesome.

And not just because Cas said they were exquisite, either. 

Mostly.

“Probably.”

“You - you’re actually gonna review?” 

“You did publically invite back to your restaurant on my _blog_ , Dean. If I don’t, someone might ask.”

“But… you’re gonna say good things, ‘bout how kick ass my new menu is.” 

“Regardless of how the rest of this conversation goes, I am going to say good things about your food,” Cas says, eyes almost warm, half a hash brown speared on his fork. It’s supposed to be light hearted, but Dean’s stomach drops with the realisation that they’re _not done_ with this conversation. They’re not even half way done. 

Oh _god_.

Why can’t he fix this?

It should be fixable. Cas coming here means it should be _fixable_ but all he’s done is spill goddamn cleaning fluid, give Cas more reason to be pissed at him and cook. He hasn’t _achieved_ anything. They’ve barely gotten anywhere with this whole damn conversation. 

“Dean,” Cas says, frowning at him over his plate of food in Dean’s kitchen, and this whole situation is _ridiculous_. Meeting in the restaurant feels like it should be incendiary, but somehow it’s not, and it turns out the last month or so hasn’t magically cured him of all the mental blocks in his head stopping him from saying _I want to gay-date you and I always goddamn wanted that_ , “What happened?”

Dean sets his cutlery down.

_Crunch time_.

He needs to talk. He needs to explain. To goddamn verbalise. 

“Mostly, straight up panic,” Dean says, staring at his hands, “I - I don’t usually, uh. Things at the Restaurant were crappy and Marv - the ex-restaurant manager,”

“Charlie called him a walking, talking butthole.” 

“That is... not inaccurate,” Dean says, “I needed a Autumn menu, but I was just _dried up_ , and every time I tried it just came out crappy enough that I just threw it all out and gave up. Cooking is the only thing I’m any good at, and I couldn’t _do it_.”

“That’s not remotely true, but - I thought this _wasn’t_ about food.”

“It _wasn’t_ ,” Dean says, “But - that’s why I was at that damn bar, because I don’t usually - uh.”

“Dean,” Cas says, hand reaching out, thumb brushing over his forearm. They haven’t actually _touched_ at any other point, not even when Dean was straightening his goddamn chef hat, but now Cas is breaking the barrier and -- a single goddamn touch to the arm shouldn’t make all of Dean’s muscles feel like butter that’s been left out in the heat, but it does. It clenches some thirst he didn’t know he even had. Cas’ thumb is warm and lovely and he wants _everything_ when it comes to Cas. “You weren’t out. I want to make it clear that I am not _remotely_ mad about that.”

Cas is way too goddamn good for him.

“Was already half freak out about you being in my _bed_ after sobering up, then Charlie calls me about your review and then _your face_ was on that blog and -- I blurted it out that you were in my apartment - and then you were in my freaking _kitchen_. The coffee thing just fell out my goddamn mouth.”

“I can see how that would be a pressure cooker for bad decisions.”

“And - you were _right_ about all of it. About my closeted goddamn garlic bread and my overcompensating burgers, but I didn’t _want_ you to be right, and then I lost my mind and said freaking _breakfast_ and… Cas, I hadn’t cooked anything that didn’t suck for _months_ and then you were sat at my kitchen table, with your snark and your goddamn _voice_ and your - your everything - and I _cooked_ and then I used that as a way to justify taking your number out the trash, because I _wanted_ to see you again, but I wasn’t _supposed_ to, and then you already - I’d already lied. I, I sold myself some dumb line about wanting to prove I could cook to justify meeting you for coffee, because that’s the only way I’d _let myself_. That’s - what I meant, in the restaurant before.”

“Dean, why didn’t you just _tell_ me?” Cas says, “I wouldn’t have begrudged you for any of that. You didn’t give me the tools I needed to understand.”

“You said that you thought I was _some emotionally repressed, closeted asshole at the bar._. Wasn’t feeling keen to prove you right.” 

Cas exhales.

_And then I was so freaking into you that I just didn’t want you to leave. I panicked, Cas, I needed to process everything, but I ran out of time and -_

He needs to talk. 

“And then I was dizzy as hell with all these goddamn feelings and I didn’t want to fuck it up by telling you I’d been lying. I - I really didn’t want this to tank, Cas, and I - I figured if I had more _time_ then I’d have worked it out , but I just kept _lying_ and falling for you and I just - panicked,” Dean says, actually _freaking says_ with words, out loud. Words. About his _feelings_. Better words than the ones he kept in his head. Maybe Cas won’t forgive him or won’t want him anymore, but at least it won’t be because he let the whole thing pass him with all that stuff locked up in his head. “ _Holy shit,_ the crap in my head actually came _out my mouth_. Sorry, it’s - it’s been a problem.”

Cas’ mouth softens slightly. It’s barely noticeable, but Dean sure as hell notices. 

“Dean, that dinner -”

_Talk_. 

“ - I was supposed to be having dinner with Sam the same night. Your reserved table was right next to us. Charlie said I should just cancel on Sam, but I - it’s like you said about me not letting myself look at you,” Dean says, “Except it was freaking _everything_ and, I’ve never — keeping you out the restaurant was an excuse for something I really, really wanted to do. Cas, I’m - I’m so goddamn sorry.”

_I’m so goddamn sorry_. 

“I had enough information to piece this together,” Cas says, “ _Not_ that you ran this restaurant, but that your apprehension about this relationship came from -”

“ - me being an emotionally repressed, closed asshole?”

“Dean,” Cas says, “ _I_ am an emotionally repressed _un_ -closeted asshole. I should not have said that to you and when I reread it I hated that damnable blog post knowing that I was talking about _you_ and how it must have made you feel. _I knew_ that you were hiding something, I just didn’t know _what_. I had assumed it was _something_ to do with this, because you passed on your coming out stories over coffee but told me about your mothers pie. Sam threw me off but, Dean, I didn’t _ask you_. You gave me answers to direct questions. You told me you weren’t lying about _me_ and I remained wilfully ignorant because I _wanted_ it to work out so much.”

Dean feels sick. Nauseas. That feeling of adrenaline the he hasn’t gotten since the last time the two of them were in the restaurant. 

“Cas -” 

“ - no, I think I should say more,” Cas says, “Dean, my life is not how I anticipated it to be. My steady income is pity money from my brother, who I did not intend to be living with when I was in my thirties. _I_ was at that bar because I'd had another reminder of how naive I was to assume that someone who is thirty and unqualified could walk into a career such as writing, and Gabriel suggested that I was uptight and miserable and should endeavour to try and enjoy myself and - I don't _do_ one night stands, normally, Dean, but I was trying to be _different_ and then you were endearing and cooked and I _liked you_ and it felt like something in my life was happening as I wanted it to. I wanted you to fill up all the holes in my life , so I ignored that there a was _clearly_ something going on, and subsequently lost my ability to --- act rationally. That was unfair and baseless because - my life isn't successful in the way that world paints success, but I am _freer_ than I have ever been. I am sorry for how things worked out. It was -- bad timing, I think.”

“That’s why you came here,” Dean says, mouth exceptionally dry, “To apologise for how things turned out.” 

“We didn’t end things on very good terms. Closure, is -” 

Cas considers things to have _ended_. That’s not surprising. They haven’t spoken and it’s been freaking _weeks_ , but Dean is so, so far from emotionally been done with this it’s goddamn ridiculous. He doesn’t want them to end on _any terms_ , he wants to drag Cas in by his stupid shirt and kiss him, and watch him watch crappy TV and listen to him bicker with Gabriel. He _wants_ and now Cas is throwing round words like _end_ and talking about them in the past tense - 

And it’s not like Dean didn’t know that this was a possibility.

He assumed Cas wouldn’t even _show up_ , but now he’s here is so much worse.

“-right,” Dean says, chest aching, more bitterness than he intended creeping into his voice. “Closure.”

“Dean?” Cas says, forehead creased, gaze piercing as ever.

If he bullshits his way past this question _now_ , that’s it. That’s it. Cas will finish his dinner and shake his goddamn hand goodbye like all is forgive. He’ll write nice things about Dean’s food on his blog and never come back to try Jess’ lamb burger, or Cas’ grilled cheese, or order the baby zucchini fries. He’ll just _leave_ and not come back and it will be _Dean’s fault_ for not trying a little harder. 

“That's not what I want,” Dean says, chest pounding. This is harder than talking about the other stuff, which he can frame like it’s a thing that already happened to him, rather than _a choice_ , but Dean Winchester came out to to Bobby freaking Singer and to Ellen and Jo. He fired Marv. He redid his menu and promoted _Charlie_ and he sleeps on a memory foam mattress in an apartment that doesn’t directly remind him of the fact that his little brother has more of a life than Dean does every time he walks past Sam’s old bedroom door. He has _changed_ , goddamnit. He has talked about his feelings. He’s apologised. He _invited_ Cas here without justifying it to himself with nothing but the giant ass goddamn _dude-on-dude_ feelings he’s been lugging around. 

He _screwed up_ but he is _not_ a goddamn screw up, and he is _not_ screwing this up if he can help.

No way. It’s too damn important. 

Cas tilts his head at him.

“What _do_ you want?” Cas asks, setting his cutlery down to look at him.

“I want,” Dean begins, the words _still_ clogging up in his chest and - fuck - why does this have to be so hard? Why can't he just say _I want you, you asshole_ like in the goddamn movies and be done? To say something big and important, that will make all the rest of it seem small. For Cas to stay. “I want - I want not to be so fucking scared of all of this. I want to - to actually be able to say what's in my head. To tell you that you're - dammit Cas, I was so fucking sure that I didn't want this and it wasn't worth it - to deal with this whole _part_ of me - but then you were so… Fucking great and you - you'd say something and I I'd see you, not like see you, but _see you_ see you, and it was all just crumbling in my head and, obviously you were worth it. Obviously I just wanted to - to just let myself care about you and just - drop all the bullshit, because you're - you're smart as hell, and you don't take the world's crap, and you - I figured that if you knew what a hot mess was, you'd be out. Gone. And I just -” Dean runs a frustrated hand through his hair, because his internal mantra hasn’t helped him freaking _articulate_ any, even if the motivation is there. “ - I don't deserve a damn thing from you, Cas.”

“I didn't ask you what you think you deserve,” Cas says, “I asked what you want.”

“I _want_ to - to teach you how to fucking cook.” 

Cas breaks his gaze to look at his half eaten plate of chicken and whatever and Dean doesn’t _know what that means_. Cas is impenetrable and cooking is so, so much goddamn easier than words, but _burgers don’t actually talk_ and he needs… he needs to be clearer.

“That would take a very long time, Dean,” Cas says, and his voice is smaller than normal. Quiet. 

And _Dean doesn’t know what that means_. 

“I know,” Dean says, heart in his throat. “That's the damn point.” Cas looks up at him at that, a familiar pink flush that means he’s _pleased_ creeping across his cheeks, which means -- which means he has a helluva good reason to keep talking. “And I want - I want to cook for you, a lot, and I want… I want you to meet Sam when I'm not having a goddamn breakdown and for you and Charlie to actually be goddamn besties. . I want you to - I, no. that’s it. That’s what I want. I want _you_." 

“It sounds wonderful, but...you weren’t ready for this, Dean, you were pushed.”

“Cas,”

“It should have been your _choice_ , Dean, but you backed yourself in a corner and then you _had to_ come out to clear up the mess. You didn’t want to. You weren’t _ready_. That’s not your fault, Dean, and I don’t blame you for it, but you need time.”

“I _had_ time,” Dean says, “Cas, that’s what I just _did_. I _took_ time.”

“It’s been just over a month, Dean, that’s not enough.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “Cas, I came out to _Bobby_. I wasn’t _pushed_ into doing that. I overhauled the whole goddamn restaurant. My garlic bread is the _opposite_ of closeted. I went to a _gay fucking beach_.”

“What?”

“I - Charlie,” Dean says, waving this away, “Not the point. Cas, I sent you that invite because I have _had time_.”

“You’re trying to prove to me that you’re _out_ enough for me. That’s not good, Dean.”

“I did all that stuff at the restaurant _before_ reading your blog post. That came from _me_ , Cas, I made those decisions all on your own -”

“ - you have _just_ told me that before four months ago thinking about being with a men while sober made you _panic_. Dean. You need _time_.”

“And _since_ then we’ve dated, Cas, you met half my damn family and I came out to the rest of them. What else do you want me to do, take an add out in the fucking paper?”

“ _No_ , that’s my whole point. You need to _deal with this_ in your own time -”

“ - it’s done.”

“Dean, the most highly qualified therapist in existence could not untangle that much internal baggage in a _month_ ,” Cas says, voice hot and emotional. 

“ _Fine_ , Cas, the whole freaking idea of being in a honest to god relationship scares the crap out of me and there’s still this shitty voice in the back of my head that says I can’t want it, but I want it _anyway_. Goddamn, Cas, if you don’t want this, fine. I can deal with that, but don’t do it for _my good_ because all I keep thinking about how much I missed you.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice very even, “I am very, very happy that you are gaining control of your life, but you did that whilst _hoping_ that we could reconcile and I - I can’t in good conscience be that reason for you.”

“Well _fuck_ your good conscience, because that’s not what happened. That’s _not_ what happened. I didn’t do all of this _because of you_ , it was because everything was getting so fucked up. I _fucked_ it up worrying too much about everything else -”

“ - I’m not _being_ self-sacrificial, Dean,” Cas says, voice pulled tight but on the edge of spilling over. “This is for _my good_. This is self-preservation, because as much as I understand _how_ this happened, Dean, I don’t believe it wouldn’t _happen again_ and I can’t do that. You are enigmatic and charming and fundamentally good, Dean, and I wish that we had met under different circumstances, after you’d had time to work this out, but I don’t think this is _fixable_. I’m sorry, truly because - I care about you a great deal.”

Dean swallows.

“So that’s it?” Dean asks, the words tasting ashy. 

“Yes,” Cas says.

“Okay.” 

“I should leave,” Cas says, standing up, “Thank you for dinner.”

“No problem,” Dean says, through the hollow in his throat. Everything is very quiet inside his head as Castiel stands up. He inadvertently kicks the seat as he stands. His hands self-consciously straighten out his chef jacket. He’s _leaving_ and that’s… fair enough. He wouldn’t believe that Dean wouldn’t freak out again, either. He’s not _fixed_. He still has to talk himself into rainbow goddamn ice creams and he’s about six years away from letting Charlie download freaking Grindr onto his phone. He’s still a bit _screwed up_ , even if that isn’t all he is.

Dean swallows. 

“Cas,” Dean says, not looking up from his damn hands. His voice sounds about as raw and stripped bare as he feels, but he’s past caring about that. He’s said enough that Cas _knows_ he’s stamping all over Dean’s heart, and that he’s stamping over his own too because he can’t _trust Dean_. He gets that. Obviously, he gets that. “Publish the review.”

Cas stops in the doorway to look at him, blue eyes sharpened into a point. 

“I have no intention of punishing you, Dean.”

“No, not - that’s not about me. It was a good review, Cas, you deserve credit. You _deserve_ your break. They were probably eyeing you up for months, okay, and you would’ve - if it wasn’t for me - you’d have your column by now. I’m not okay with that, Cas. You should walk out of here with something. If it’s not gonna be… us, then you should publish it.”

“Dean, your _restaurant_ -”

“ - my restaurant will be fine, Cas. I can take a shitty review. Sam actually thinks your second one is snarky enough to drive up more business.” 

“I called your garlic bread closeted.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “And it was goddamn hilarious. I’m _glad_ you wrote that damn thing. It _helped_ in the end. Call them up and take the offer. Don’t -- you’ll regret it if you don’t, Cas, and I’m giving you permission.”

“Dean, the offer was weeks ago.”

“They’ll still want it,” Dean says, “Hell, Cas, tell ‘em all those posts about D were about the same chef. That’s a goddamn gold mine. You can fuel your column for months. Turn it into a freaking commentary about internalised homophobia. Sell the whole fucking story, Cas, you deserve to write. I’m serious, man, and this isn’t some self-deprecating crap, you should do it. I’m - I’m not gonna read it, not gonna let anyone _talk to me_ about it, but I think you should do it.”

Castiel is frozen on the spot in the doorway staring at him and Dean has _no idea what that means_ , but it doesn’t matter, because he’s sure about that. He’s not playing the martyr. Or, maybe a bit, but those words are never going to sting more than they did in that damn restaurant. They aren’t _true_ any more, most of the time, and that’s enough detachment. 

“You mean that?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking up at him. His voice is still dry and a little hoarse, but it’s clear enough for his sincerity to bleed through, “Can get Sam or one of your lawyer brothers to draw up a freaking contract saying I can’t sue your ass later if you want. I’m cold dead serious.” 

“You are _lawyer_ serious?”

“Cas, I told you. This isn’t about me. You said you can’t, and I hear that, but - you had an opportunity for your _dream_ and you should take it. If I’m out the picture, there’s no conflict of interest and I’m saying _take it_.” 

“Damnit Dean,” Cas hisses and Dean definitely _doesn’t know what that means_ but then Cas is crossing the kitchen again, eyes sparked with something, “You can’t just - _invite me to take an add out in the fucking paper_ as a farewell gesture, you _assbut_.”

“I - what?” 

“God _damnit_ ,” Cas says, gaze half-frantic as he pulls Dean in by his damn chef whites, and drags him into a clumsy and graceless kiss that’s in equal parts the most confusing and wonderful fucking thing to happen to him for weeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS. I assumed you'd want an end to that cliffhanger enough that I prioritise finished this over answering your comments, but please know that they have all been loved and appreciated a great deal. The response to this story has been wonderful and so very very encouraging. 
> 
> For now, I leave with with... a cliffhanger.


	18. Chapter 18

It takes him a moment to react, and then his body catches up before his head.

God, he’s missed Cas, with his _words_ and his _snark_ and his undeniable goddamn heart and the way he _looks at Dean_ like he’s worth something. And, and Cas is _right here_ , kissing him like there’s a goddamn time limit (and _fuck_ Dean hopes there isn’t). It’s all urgency and _heat_. Cas’ hands still balled up in his jacket, trapped between them, and Dean’s scrabbling to get closer because _freaking Castiel_. He didn’t figured he’d get another goddamn chance, but now they’re in his kitchen, and Cas just _kissed him_. And he can’t - he’s no good at _talking_ about how he feels, but he can pour all of that out into this goddamn _kiss_ , into getting closer to Cas, into tightening his hold on Cas’ waist and -

“Cas, Cas - we, we can’t,”

Dean’s _somehow_ backed up against one of his kitchen workshops because Cas is a pushy sonuvabitch, and he has no fucking _idea_ how they got from Cas being about to walk out to necking in his goddamn kitchen, and he didn’t mean _we can’t_ to have Cas putting space between them. His whole goddamn body is aching to just _keep goddamn kissing_ , because he wants Cas so fuckingly badly he has no idea where to put it, with his stubble and that curve of his throat and his arms and his _everything_. 

“I mean - kitchen,”

“What?” Cas asks and, oh god, he’s all freaking _ruffled_ and Dean doesn’t remember half undoing Cas’ chef jacket, and his mouth is parted just so in confusion and it would be _so, so_ much better just to -- kiss him again. The warm curve of Cas’ lip and his _body heat_ and -

Goddamnit.

“ _Kitchen_ ,” Dean repeats, because _words_ have left the goddamn building. He’s too wired and freaking turned on to articulate. Baffled, too, because this conversation derailed so damn badly. _Goodly_ , even. Nothing about Cas kissing him is _bad_ , but he doesn’t have a fucking clue what is happening right now. Kissing and then _not_ kissing, because Dean stopped it. Because of the kitchen.

“Dean,” Cas says which isn’t even a little bit fair. _Obviously,_ Dean can’t be expected to deal with Cas saying his name like that, all tilted in confusion and frustration, and so goddamn hot that Dean can’t even think. He’s pretty sure he’s never been so fucking attracted to someone in his whole life and it’s impractical and incredible, but he can’t motherfucking _think_.

“I - health code violations, kitchen.”

Cas’ face breaks out into the kind of smile that’s so fucking lovely that Dean’s lungs implode. 

He is so screwed. If Cas is still gonna walk out at the end of this, Dean’s gonna have to peel himself off the floor, big time. He’s had enough time to convince himself that then being over isn’t as big of a deal as it felt like, but. Cas. Castiel. 

“You are unreasonably _cute_.”

“I ain’t _cute_ ,” Dean says, indignance cutting through everything else in his head for a split second, then Cas fucking _beams_ at him and they’re making out again before Dean’s even realised what’s happened. 

It doesn’t _help_ quench the need to be closer at all, it just sparks it into this all encompassing _longing_ that takes over every other rational thought in his head about the six thousand other things that they need to talk about, or the fact that his whole kitchen wreaks of the cleaning fluid he spilt earlier, or the fact that Cas _literally just told him_ he couldn’t be in this relationship. 

He’s right _here_ , though. He walked back across the kitchen and he kissed him. He thinks Dean dropping crap is cute. He said that Dean was enigmatic and charming and fundamentally good. 

They are _dangerously goddamn close_ to getting naked in his goddamn kitchen.

“ - Cas,” Dean mutters, word catching in his throat, “We need to, uh,” Dean pauses, losing his train of thought and his goddamn mind as Cas swallows, which suddenly seems like fucking _porn_ with how hot it is. Goddamnit. It’s not fucking _fair_ for him to be this affected by his mere existence. And -- Words. The kitchen. “They would shut me down _so_ hard.”

Cas looks at him for a long few moments.

“You have an office,” He says, voice not even remotely even, so maybe Dean’s not the only one whose wiring is shot to hell when it comes to _this_. Also, Cas is a fucking genius. A confusing-as-fuck, unfairly attractive genius, whose already reached out to _pull him_ in the direction of his goddamn office.

Ho _ly_ shit. 

They’re freaking making out again before they get through the door, because he’s just so _goddamn_ magnetic, and it’s been a month of missing him and making the space in his head to realise how deep his feelings run, and now he’s _right here_ \- 

And _wearing too many layers_ with the damn chef’s jacket over his shirt. 

“I am not selling that fucking review,” Cas mutters into his neck. Dean’s - Dean’s somehow half sat on the edge of his poxy desk (and _who the hell knows_ how they got here), with Cas stood in the space between his legs with his shirt half undone and - and he’s never going to be able to think straight in this office again, pun so not intended. 

And Cas is _not selling_ that review. The way he says the word ‘fucking’ has broken his mental hardrive and he _isn’t_ going to sell the review. Cas’ breath is hot just below his ear and Dean needs to _focus_. Not selling the review. Didn’t leave. Used the word ‘assbutt’ in actual real life. Like, not ironically. _Assbut_. 

“Because you,” Dean says, losing his words for a moment. There are about fifteen questions he needs answering here, but Cas is - all gorgeous and right there and this is basically how they got in this mess in the first place. He can’t think past how much he goddamn likes him. He never _could_ , he just used to be better a kidding himself. “Because of the, the making out.”

“No,” Cas says, and kisses him again, slower. A _cooling down_ kind of kiss that still has him reeling, but allows his thought to regulate a little bit, which is good. Thinking. “The whole point of not being a tax accountant anymore was for my work not to hurt anyone.”

“I’ll -- I’ll be fine.”

“ _No_ ,” Cas says, “I already decided. That was was borne out of hurt and it was spiteful and that is _not_ something I want to turn into success.” 

“But, Cas -”

“- this isn’t a negotiation,” Cas says, not unkindly, palm resting on Dean’s cheek that Dean melts into like some touch-starved asshole, like they haven’t been plastered _all over_ each other for however long it’s been since that moment that Cas didn’t leave. Dean shifts his hand on Cas’ hip to coax him closer and swallows. He’s got _no_ goddamn idea what they’re even talking about anymore. For half of their relationship, everything has been a metaphor. Now his brains too fogged up with attraction and probably misplaced relief and all the rest of it. “That is a decision completely independent from this.”

“This?” Dean asks, his traitorous thumb tracing semi-circles on Cas’ hip.

“And to be abundantly clear _this_ is not about closure.”

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Dean says, resting the foreheads together and exhaling, _calm_ washing over him like a freight train. Not about closure. Cas has made an active decision to not leave and Dean has absolutely _no_ idea why, but that can wait. Cas is _right there_ and gorgeous and not leaving and -- and the rest of it can wait.

“Dean,” Cas says, and _damn that voice_ , “Your office is terrible.”

“I -yeah, I got no excuses,” Dean says, eyes tracking Cas’ movement as he sways towards him and kisses him again, slow, with Dean following his lips as he pulls away all by accident. “Cas, I’m… I’m sorry.” 

“I think,” Cas says, eyes narrowing slightly as he drinks him in, “That you should take me home,”

“That - that I can do,” Dean says, melting into another kiss, open mouthed and directionless; just Cas curling his arms around his neck and pulling them in closer, “Except - I gotta clean up.”

“Health code violations are officially a buzzkill.”

“You started it with you're freaking review talk. Was gonna have you _right here_ before you started on about not selling out.”

“ _You_ insisted on leaving the kitchen.”

“Damn right I did. Didn’t go through all this restaurant crap to get shut down for screwing where people eat.” 

“So, we accept you killed the buzz. You can cook me breakfast tomorrow to compensate.”

_How_ can someone so goddamn dorky be such a smooth talker?

“Deal,” Dean says, “Though you're the one who had me cook after I'd already cleaned up-”

“Will the half a litre of cleaning fluid you dropped not be sufficient?” Cas asks, mouth all snarky and fucking wonderful and _Dean gets to take him home_. His restaurant doesn’t suck and Cas doesn’t hate him. It’s all freaking _awesome_ , even if his head hasn’t caught up. Not really. His head has screwed up enough of this show already though, so fuck his dumbass head. Everything else is on board with plan take Cas back to his appartment and show Cas how fucking sorry is, even if his head is still a little lost.

“I ever told you're an asshole?”

“Have I ever told you you have a bad work life balance?” Cas asks, smoothing his hands over his shoulders and tilting his head at him. “Hmm. I think I am going to have _very good_ things to write about your food tomorrow.” 

“Good things, like what?” 

“Spoilers, Dean,” Cas says, “I can tell you back at your apartment.”

“I - ten minutes to clean up and lock up. The tips can -”

“Take your time. I’m going to go via home. I don’t think pleading the fifth with Gabriel will go down well, and he’s already displeased with my favourable description of your food."

“He hates me,” Dean swallows, “Damnit.”

“I can handle Gabriel.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, even though he’s pretty sure it’s not gonna be that simple, because Dean knows how this big brother stuff works. He’d _hate_ him, if he was Gabriel. Would have turned up at his goddamn apartment and smashed his face in after finding out in the restaurant like that. Actually bake laxatives into a pie. Done _something_. “But you should _at least_ trash talk my pie.”

“Noted.” 

“I - I'll walk you out to the front,” Dean says, voice a little rough as he stands. It's a warm enough evening that neither of them bother with a jacket, but Cas still hovers close like he's chasing warmth and kisses him in the doorway to his restaurant like they do this all the goddamn time. Last time they were here, Cas threw him out. Now he's saying _take me home_ in that chocolate-rich voice, that catches something in his spine alight and _damn_ is he into Cas. A lot. A lot, a lot. Apparently some of his goddamn repression filter blocked some of that because he doesn't remember it being this potent and -

-sonuvabitch.

He's moved. He fucking _moved apartments_ and his brain is so goddamn fondant gooey that he forgot to mention it.

He calls him feeling like the dumbest asshole on the planet.

“Dean?”

“I moved,” Dean says, wiping down the sides again with his phone wedged under his ear, “I - forgot to give you my address.”

“Ah,” Cas says, all bright and lovely and heaven fucking help him, “That could have been problematic.”

Cas says shit like _problematic_. 

“I'll text it to you.”

“Okay,”

“But - see you soon.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “ _Very_ soon.”

Except, it’s not _that_ soon, and the time between Dean arriving back at his apartment and Cas needing to be buzzed into his apartment block is enough to have him _fully_ freaking out all over again, because --

\-- _Cas was so sure_. He said that they couldn’t start things up again because he couldn’t trust that Dean would freak out again; self preservation. It made _sense_. That was the goddamn logical decision, because Dean hasn’t given Cas a lot of reason to trust him. He lied about his job and being _out_ and about Sam knowing about their relationship. He humiliated him. Cas wrote all those freaking blog posts not knowing that Dean was reading them all. He was so goddamn nice about his food. He was so freaking respectful about all Dean’s boundaries and Dean repaid him by crapping all over that trust. He’s about in the place emotionally where Dean can acknowledge that some of this was an inevitable outworking of the bullshit he’s been storing up for years and that the fact that he _screwed up_ doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the worst person on the goddamn planet, but he’s sure as shit not the _best_. He still fucked up, a _lot_.

There’s no reason Cas should want to forget all of that.

There’s no _reason_ that Dean telling him he should sell that stupid goddamn review should result in Cas wanting him again. 

It doesn’t _make sense_.

“Dean,” Cas says, forehead creased as Dean lets him into the apartment. Most of this crap in the world is still boxed up (Bobby had a really good fucking point about reopening the restaurant in the same week he moved apartments) and he’d been making a vague attempt to make the place presentable for the crisis hit. Since then he’s been pacing the length of his front room with a fucking whisk in one a hand, a half emptied box piled on one of the chairs. “The conversation with Gabriel took… What’s wrong?”

“You,” Dean begins, pausing in goddamn pacing. It feels like all the nervous energy has sucked the momentum out of him and he just sits down heavily on his sofa instead and resolutely does not _look_ at Cas. Looking at him makes him want to reach out and touch him and that leads to unhelpful crap and -- and _none of this makes sense_. “You said you were _out_ and the next freaking second you’re - talking about breakfast and -- Cas, if you _change your mind_ \--"

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Cas says, setting his bag down and fixing his utility-knife-sharp gaze on him. 

“Cas, you literally just _did_.”

“Dean,”

“Maybe _you_ haven’t had enough time,” Dean says, “You’re pissed. You’re acting all understanding, but you’re _pissed off_ and I can’t change that and -- damnit, Cas.”

“You told me to _out you_ for my career, Dean,”

“But you _said_ the whole point was that I didn’t have to prove I was out enough for you,” Dean says, thoughts racing, head spinning, “And I’ve just - been sat here freaking out over the word boyfriend and I realised I didn’t even know if that’s what you wanted and I can’t, damnit, I can’t _do this_ if you’re not _in_ and you changed your mind so goddamn fast -”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, imploring enough to stop his spiel, “Dean. I am under no delusion that we’ve finished this conversation. If I’d known you’d begun to doubt yourself, I would have told Gabriel to shut up and packed faster.”

“Cas, if the end of this _conversation_ is you deciding you can’t be in this, then I don’t want to _have_ the conversation. I want you to call a spade a goddamn spade and leave.”

“I packed three changes of clothes.” 

And that dislodges something painful in his chest. 

“What?”

“ _Look_ , Dean,” Cas says, pulling things out of his bag. He is… not lying. Three changes of clothes. His laptop. Cas came _prepared_. That’s not on-a-whim-packing. That’s considered, fully intending to make himself goddamn comfortable, packing. It’s _presumptuous_ in the best fucking way and it’s enough to mute the worst of the storm of anxious mess in his head.

_Okay_. Okay. He still doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on, but…. Okay. 

“Is that - you bought your goddamn garlic bread?” Dean asks, as Cas continues unloading his freaking bag onto Dean’s coffee table. “You know I can _make some_ fresh, dude.”

“You made this for me.”

“No,” Dean says, “Garth made that for you. I know I work a lot, but I don’t actually cook every damn thing that comes out that kitchen.”

“Well,” Cas says, “I have sentimental attachment to this garlic bread that I don’t want my brother to ruin by eating it,” Cas says, sitting down next to him. Hand reaching out to rest on his knee, which has every single muscle in his body _relaxing_ because they're all goddamn pathetic. “Dean, I am resolute that I want to continue our relationship.”

_Relationship_.

Cas wants a relationship.

“Okay,” Dean breathes, nodding and trying not to make it obvious that Dean’s whole being is humming with some paralysing nervous-excitement-stress concoction that’s giving him mental whiplash. _Boyfriend_. Fuck. He… Dean has absolutely no freaking idea _what’s_ going on, but there’s this outside chance that he’s gonna end up with a motherfucking _boyfriend_.

_I am resolute that I want to continue this relationship._

“And I shouldn’t have kissed you without explaining, but - I want this very much, Dean, I just didn’t think that it would work, and then you gave me a very good reason that it would.”

“But that’s _it_ , Cas, I wasn’t pulling some move to get you to stay, and I don’t _understand_ what happened.”

“If you’d met me a few years ago, you would understand,” Cas says, smoothing his hand over his knee cap and to his thigh, completely freaking casually. He’d forgotten how goddamn _comfortable_ it was with Cas. Obviously, he spent the whole time freaking out about his lies, but underneath all that just _being with Cas_ felt… easy. Easier than it’s been with any other dude, _definitely_ , but also - 

Easier than with _anyone_ else, ever, and he wants to _keep it_. He really, really wants to _keep it_. 

“Your job,” Dean supplies.

“That was a system of a wider problem,” Cas says, “I really was a _total douchebag_ , as Gabriel would say.”

“Man, I _really_ struggle to believe that.”

“That’s because there was a moment when I decided I was _done_ with living like that,” Cas says, “And that’s what I saw, Dean, that the hold all of that had on you is _done_. I’m _not_ pissed at you.”

“Cas, you may want not to be pissed at me, that doesn’t mean you’re _not_ ,” Dean says, “That’s not how being _pissed off_ works.”

“You’re very presumptuous about how I feel.”

“Says the guy who told me that I needed more time less than an hour ago,”

“I - you’re right. That _was_ presumptuous,” Cas says, “And I already said I retract that statement.”

“No, you didn’t,” Dean counters, “You didn’t actually _say_ a whole lot here, Cas. Help me out, because I’m getting freaking whiplash from this conversation, and I don’t -- this vulnerability bullshit is _bullshit_ and I, I need you to tell me what the hell is going on in your head.”

“Dean, one day I woke up and realised that I _detested_ the self-serving, small minded, arrogant man I’d become and I changed my whole life. I _understand_ what it’s like to find yourself in a situation with no idea how you’d let it happen, but be utterly clueless as to how to fix it, and _I_ was a selfish, inconsiderate and egocentric. _That_ is very different to being in the closet and falling for someone who happened to be reviewing your restaurant and not knowing how to tell them and - it wasn’t an issue of forgiving you, Dean, I did that a few weeks ago, but… I was beginning to fall in love with you and…. It hurt and protecting my heart seemed sensible, until it didn’t.”

_I was beginning to fall in love with you._

“What if,” Dean says, mouth dry, “Cas - I’m still. Some of this still isn’t _easy_ for me.”

“I’m not expecting it to be,”

“What if I’m _not_ out enough for you?”

“Dean,”

“Something _might_ come up that trips up my whole head and I might, I dunno, panic.”

“ _Sometimes_ I regret quitting my job,” Cas says, “Last time that happened, you taught me how to make an omelette.” 

“It’s not that goddamn simple,”

“Are you trying to back out?”

“ _No_ ,” Dean says, “No. No, damnit, I just - _same_.”

“Same?”

“What you - what you just said,” Dean says, “Before. About - falling.” 

“Oh,” Cas says, with a small smile that’s more terrifying than sixteen autumn menus or the Pride parade that Charlie has started talking about for next fucking summer, because it is way, way more important than _any_ of that bullcrap. _That_ smile is small and a little reserved, but it’s fucking _precious_. 

“I don’t _want_ to hurt you again because of any of my internal bullcrap.”

“That’s a good basis of a relationship.”

“Cas,”

“Dean, _everyone_ has their internal bullcrap. I certainly have _mine_ ,” Cas says, “ _Yes_ , we both need to be mindful of ways we _could_ hurt each other, but - that’s how relationships work.”

“Pretty crappy at relationships, period.”

“I think,” Cas says, that small smile widening a little, “That I would like to make that decision myself.” 

Right. Okay. _Relationship_.

“You never told me about… about all that stuff with your job,” Dean says, brushing his fingertips over Cas’ knuckles, a little more of the noise in his head lessening. It’s still there. He’s still not entirely sure he knows quite what the hell is going on, but he does know that Cas packed up his fucking garlic bread and bought it to Dean’s apartment which is…. Commitment to something.

“That would be my very strong desire to let you think only good things about me.”

“What... happened? Because I don’t buy any of those things you called yourself.”

“I realised I'd spent years prioritising things I didn't care about because it's what I was supposed to do,” Cas says, turning the palm of his hand upwards and threading their fingers together. “I didn’t come to a sudden realisation that I politically disagreed with my whole existence without assistance - I was pushed.”

“Pushed, how?” 

“I walked in on my long term partner and his secretary.” 

“Right, _that_ asshole,” Dean says, tasting the words in his mouth for a little while before committing to saying it out loud. “How long is long term?”

“Hmm,” Cas says, “Three years.”

_That_ is a… long time. A really long time. A _long_ time. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, “What a fucking _douchebag_.”

“I was… frustrated that he _let me find out_ because it forced me into making a decision about our relationship - and I was comfortable. We lived together, his apartment, and I _liked_ it there and all of my friends were _his_ friends and it was - easy. Leaving would be _disruptive_ , but if I stayed then I had to concede that I had no right to ever expect anything better. If I had never known, then I wouldn’t have had to take responsibility for any of it. He _cheated_ on me and I was pissed off at him being careless about it, and then I was horrified at myself.”

“Cas,” Dean says, squeezing his hand.

“I was only in semi-regular contact with my family before I called Anna. Less than an hour later Gabriel showed up with a u-haul. He’d been setting up his cafe anyway, but needing help was mostly fabricated. He knew I detested everything about the way I’d been living, but … it had a hold on me, and I think he knew I wouldn't be able to reject the last four years of my life without a just cause,” Cas continues, and Dean shifts so he can drape his arm coax Cas a little closer. “And then it occured to me that my job _sucked_ , even if it bought me stability and excellent food, and if I ever wanted _anything_ else than rotting in that office, then I had to get out and work out _what I wanted_.”

“And Gabriel picked you up,”

“Yes,” Cas says, “For all that he is profoundly irritating, Gabriel is an excellent brother.”

“You said all that stuff about finding your college political theory essay,”

“All true,” Cas says, “Just not the _whole_ truth. I hope you don’t think too much less of me.”

“Cas,” Dean says, reaching out to slot a hand under his jaw and draw him in, “No way, Cas, and - not for a _minute_ do I believe you were selfish, or any of that crap.”

“You didn’t see my _company car_.”

“Okay - don’t _ever_ give me details about that,” Dean says, leaning forward to kiss him, languid and easy, “I’ll never get it up again.”

“Doubtful,” Cas says, shifting into his lap to kiss him deeper and curl into his personal space, “Are we - okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, but - let’s not do that _not the whole truth_ again because -”

“- it sucked?”

“Yeah, it _sucked_ , and not in the fun way,” Dean says, watching as Cas leans forward to kiss Dean’s bottom lip, relaxing into it again. This is good. This is fucking _awesome_. Cas… Cas is awesome, with that small, insecure little smile and his self-conscious telling of him transforming his whole fucking world. God, it’s good to have Cas snuggling up all _close_ and warm and solid and sexy as hell, saying all this stuff about wanting a relationship and spilling more truths. Good truths.

“Remind me about the fun way again,” Cas mutters into Dean’s lips.

“Should show you around my apartment.”

“A guided tour of your sofa will be sufficient for now.”

“I - uh,” Dean says, as Cas kisses him again, “Got me a memory foam mattress topper.”

“Mhm,” Cas says, all freaking affectionate, “Memory foam, later.”

“Awesome,” 

“I have missed you.”

“Same,”

“You are _lovely_ ,”

“Shut up,” Dean says, getting caught up in his goddamn mouth, “Cas.”

“Hmm?” Cas asks, pulling away enough to look at him. He wants to ask if that makes them fucking _boyfriends_ , now, but it feels too juvenile, too much to cram into one evening, one too many thing to fit into this conversation. Cas packed three days worth of clothes and Dean’s freaking garlic bread, so maybe that talk can wait. He can fall back into making out with his… with Cas, on his sofa, after their great big hiatus. “Dean?” 

“What are you gonna write about my burgers?” Dean asks and Cas smiles, an eye-crinkling smile that floods Dean's whole goddamn body with a pleasant-warmth that makes every last inch of doubt fall out the back of his head, and then he leans close and breathes the words into his skin. Bone deep comfort, uncomplicated warmth, rich and deep; _delicious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are sooooooo close to the end now. Thanks all for providing such great company through this :)


	19. Chapter 19

“You indicated that there was a previous incident with a man,” Cas says, the very tips of his fingertips brushing over the base of his spine. Dean's sprawled out on the bed and freaking boneless because holy shit do they know how to have make up sex, _fucking wow_ , and he's fighting the urge to sleep only because Cas is talking, and he's interested in just about everything Cas has to say, ever. He is really, really goddamn interested in every single _thing_ Cas wants’ to talk about, he’d just -- probably rather not talk about this right now.

Not this exact second. Not when Cas is close and gorgeous and fucking beautiful and when he feels so damn good right now. Bringing fucking _Alistair_ into this freaking perfect evening is not his idea of a good time, but - damnit, they’ve covered so much ground tonight that _maybe_ , maybe, it’s a good idea. 

“Scotch,” Dean says, forcing himself into movement. He’s comfortable enough to sleep for a week, but talking -- talking, they should do that. They really _should_ , but launching straight into it still isn’t fucking easy. Dean sits up, stretches and swallows back the usual instinct to haul-ass to Canada. “Bobby bought a bottle. He, uh, came to visit when the restaurant was closed.” 

“Post coital-scotch,” Cas says, sitting up slowly, sharp blue gaze tracking his movement very carefully, “Hmm. That sounds acceptable.” 

“I - good,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck and standing up, “Two minutes.” 

“You’re not getting dressed,” Cas smiles. 

“I’m walking to the freakin’ kitchen, dude.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “You usually dress for that.” 

“You got any other complaints?” 

“Your nudity has _never_ been a complaint.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, face flushing slightly, the compliment sitting warm in his gut. Cas is fucking lovely and he doesn’t really know how to deal with that kind of thought, because some of his internal processing is still fucked up enough that it jars when _lovely_ and _dude_ get close together, like dumbass heteronormative magnets that he hasn’t quite managed to disable. _Obviously_ , Cas is lovely, it just breaks his freaking head a little. “Shut up. I’m gonna get the scotch.” 

If he’d known that his day would end up with Cas in his apartment, he probably would have unpacked some more goddamn boxes yesterday. The damn place was carnage _before_ they started making out on the sofa and now Cas’ bag is half unloaded on his coffee table, next to the whisk he was stress carrying around the place. He would have made _some_ vested effort in making it look like he had some of his shit together - because he’s pretty sure he actually _does_ \- rather than inviting him into his chaos. 

_Cas packed three changes of clothes_.

Dean puts the abandoned garlic bread in the fridge on his way to retrieving the bottle of scotch and forces himself to take a minute and fucking _breathe_. Cas is going to stay. Not just the night but around _generally_ until -- well, in _definitely_ provided Dean doesn’t fuck up, or Cas doesn’t change his mind, and there’s a chance that forcing himself through this conversation might just _reduce_ the chance of the former.

He brings the bottle. It feels like that kind of night where they need _time_ , like… like freaking _slow cooking_. There’s so much they need to goddamn talk about and so many feelings that need to settle that they need the benefit of time to entice it all out, to _rest_ in the knowledge that it’s going to work out, to marinate in each other’s company again, till they wind up with some tender and fragrant and so much fucking better than what they wound up with.

Whiskey usually helps. 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice packed with gravel and that soft-intimacy that makes Dean a little lightheaded. He’s sat on Dean’s bed, bare ass naked, looking like he belongs there and -- and Dean _wants this_. He wants it so damn bad, and he might just get it. _Three changes of clothes_. “If you just said there was a previous incident with a man because you were panicking, that isn’t going to upset me.” 

“No,” Dean says, handing over the scotch and sitting back down. He takes a moment to stare at his glass and inhale. Slow cooking. Time. Freaking seasoning. And… and Cas looks goddamn _amazing_ and sinfully-hot with his freaking nudity and his scotch. Fuck. “No - I mean, I was panicking, but it was…. true. Just not the whole truth.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas asks, an actual genuine question. He’d drop it if Dean wanted him too. Even though Dean’s earned zero levels of trust from the guy, apparently he still has a degree of respect for Dean’s boundaries. 

“I, no,” Dean says, “Really _really_ don’t, but we... should. If we’re - talking stuff out.” 

“I’d like to know,” Cas says, sincerity leaking out of every single word, because Cas is _like_ that. “I like learning things about you.” 

Dean snorts. 

“The last time we spoke isn’t the best example,” Cas says, hand curled around his glass of scotch, body curved in Dean’s direction. “Generally.” 

“ _Generally_ ,” Dean says, running a thumb over the rim of his glass and leaning forward to kiss, him, slowly. He tastes like whiskey and it’s fucking awesome and --- okay. He’s doing this. Spilling his soul and bleeding his guts everywhere, because _slow cooking_ and because _Castiel_ “You actually, uh, know some of it already, just not the context, or that it was… significant.” 

“Okay,” Cas says, close enough that they’re a hair breadth away from kissing again. 

“It, uh, gets a little tangled up in how I wound up cooking.” 

“I want to know that story, too,” Cas says, reaching out to slot a hand on the back of his neck, “Now that we’re being -- honest.” 

“I - _fuck,_ ,” Dean says, breaking his gaze and shutting his eyes, “I don't like talking about this.” 

“Dean,” 

“I mean, I - talked around it with Sam and I'm pretty Charlie filled in some of the blanks, but, uh. This is - not my favourite topic of conversation.” 

“You have no obligation to bare your soul just because I’d like to know. Especially not all tonight.” 

That’s an out and it’s a tempting out, too, because… dammit, they’ve covered a lot of ground tonight. Yesterday they hadn’t spoken for a month. Now, they just had the world’s greatest freaking make-up sex and Dean’s eighty percent sure they’re in an honest to god _relationship_. Dean’s actually pretty sure that he knows what’s going in the guy’s head and his memory foam mattress has never been more comfortable. 

They _don’t_ have to have every single goddamn conversation tonight. 

But, _but_. 

_Slow cooking_. 

He doesn’t _want_ any of this crap to ever screw things up with Cas because he doesn’t know how to deal with it and…. And he’s pretty fucking sure he’s got a handle on a lot of it, but it -- if he _doesn’t_ , it’s going to be a hell of a lot easier for them to navigate if Cas knows something about it. 

“Don’t do this talking it out bullcrap a whole lot and if it doesn't happen now, I dunno that it's ever gonna happen and, I…” Dean says, squaring his jaw and meeting his gaze again. “Damnit, some point it's gonna come up and I don't want it to tank us, so- guess we're doing this.” 

“Okay,” Cas says, twisting their legs together and offering him a not-smile that settles in his gut. 

Okay then. 

“So, you know I quit school,” Dean begins, because that’s safe ground. They’ve talked _around_ a lot of this stuff (more than Dean’s ever done with anyone else at least), it’s just the details they’ve skatered around for the obvious reasons and a couple just because he has issues with vulnerability and self-worth and sixteen hundred other things that seasoned his fucking meltdown. It’s _basic_ stuff, like Cas knowing the story about John Winchester dissing his freaking pie, but now knowing how that made him _feel_. Cas being given the blase reasoning about him quitting school, without the years of context and pressure that built up before that. He’s gotta _backtrack_ before he gets into brand new information and… and, anyway, it’s a lot freaking easier to talk about _that_ than the next bit. 

“And you washed pots for Ellen,” 

“That's the abridged rose tinted version,” Dean says, bringing his scotch to his lips and taking a sip and letting the warmth spread through his chest until it settles here. He’s got to do this. He _wants_ to, anyway, because the more Cas understands about how this shit-show happened the better. “I was a pain in the ass kid and I wanted to quit school to earn money and Ellen and Bobby wanted me to graduate - obviously.” 

“They were looking out of you.” 

“Yep,” Dean says, “They’re good people.” 

“Good,” Cas says, and that’s his hands on his thigh, all casual and intimate, like it’s not a big deal. 

“Anyway, I - I’d been working for her every hour she'd give me, weekends and evenings, but she - wanted me to have enough time to keep on top of school and have a damn life, except - damnit,” Dean says, gaze dropping back down to his glass. “Told you our Dad wasn't an after school special success story on our third date, but I didn't exactly get into the fucking details.” 

“You said enough time over the course of time for me to piece together a relatively comprehensive picture.” Cas says, all blue eyes and understanding. _That_ makes sense. Cas knows enough about freaking deadbeats to spot one, even if that’s not… that’s not exactly how he’s mentally filled _John Winchester_ , which is a whole other goddamn mess. He mentioned… he mentioned him being gone for five years, long absences and illusions to expressions of disappointment. The blanks probably _are_ exactly how Cas filled them in. 

“Okay,” Dean says, swallows, “Well, he --- he wasn't, uh, on top of of the bills all the time and I figured I could handle it myself, so Ellen didn't _know_ I was skipping school and working at this other place-” 

“ - you had two jobs?” Cas asks, which means he’s _still_ filling in the blanks with some of the crap that Dean still isn’t prepared to say out loud, even if John Winchester checked out of the show a long time ago. 

“Three, if you wanna get technical about it. And then - Ellen said if I quit school she'd fire my ass, trying to be bad cop, only I was a pig headed teenager with authority issues, so I , uh, quit school _and_ working at Ellen's. Thought I knew better than everyone else _and_ that I was totally alone in the world which - obviously bullshit.” 

“You _were_ seventeen.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah. Took me a while to work out they were in my corner. Her and Bobby.” 

“I want to meet them. Especially Bobby.” 

“Oh, you’re gonna meet Bobby,” Dean says, with his own half smile. He’s gonna have to call Bobby again and tell him that… that it worked out. That he pulled his head out of his ass for long enough to talk about his feelings. That his… his boyfriend specifically asked to meet him ( _if_ that’s what they’re doing). “Got absolutely no idea how that’s gonna go, but - it’s gonna go.” 

“Good,” Cas says, voice homemade-mac-and-cheese-warm and _fuck_ Dean is so goddamn lucky that Cas walked back across his kitchen, because he wants this _so_ so goddamn much. And that’s fine. He’s _allowed_. It is okay. “Your story.” 

“Right,” Dean says, gaze getting caught up on his mouth for a second and, damnit, focus. _Focus_. “I was washing pots, but then I was waiting tables, too, and that made more money.” 

“Tips,” 

“Yeah, so I was gonna just drop the pot washing, cause Dad… he was around, but he wasn’t _around_ , in a college fees kind of way, or you know - “ Dean swallows, but _fuck it_ , Cas is going to work it out, anyway, “Even in a paying the rent way, so… if Sam was going, _that_ had to be up to me - or, that’s how I saw it.” 

“That’s a lot of responsibility to take on at seventeen.” 

“That’s - Sam was my responsibility a long ass time before that, but if we get into that, we’ll never get through this goddamn story. Later, before I -” _Before he fucking bottles it_ \- “before I gotta crash out and sleep.”

“Later is fine. We have time,” Cas says and isn’t _that_ a fucking revelation. “So - you’re working very hard.” 

_Slow cooking._

“Right. We’re talking - nineteen, now,” Dean says, “Working hard for shit money, rocking the misunderstood trouble teenage shtick and then one of the chefs at that restaurant said, goddamn dumb now I think about it, but uh - he was setting up his own restaurant, and he could use someone with my work ethic. He hadn’t been there that long. Not when I was a real kid, and he said he’d pay me more money to keep pot washing so I figured - what the hell.” 

“You took the job.” 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, and _fuck_ he hates this story. He hates the way it all seems to goddamn obvious on the other side of the equation. He hates how much he wants to shake his younger-self for not having the instinct to get the hell away, or just… feeling so invincible or self-destructive or both, that he put that instinct in a box and motherfucking buried it. He shouldn’t have taken the damn job. He should have _known_ , but he didn’t and that’s - that’s just how it was. He can’t do a damn thing about it _now_ but… 

But he _really_ hates dragging this crap out into the light. 

“And it was - fine. I mean, same job, different person yelling orders, more money and it was fine for… for a long time. Then one day I’m - cleaning up. The line chefs was supposed to finish up, but they’d give me some of their tips if I closed up and I’d do just about anything for some extra cash… and Alistair,” Dean says, throat catching on the word which is fucking _awesome_. “He, he was that head chef who poached me, shows up and — asks me if I can cook. I’m angry at everything, with a fucking deep fat fryer of chips on my shoulder and a give-em-hell attitude, so I told him I was a better than half the people in his brigade. So he got me to cook him some douchey truffle stuffed fresh pasta from his menu, which… he _knew_ I’d never made fresh pasta in my whole fucking life.”

He can still _remember_ that feeling of dread when he realised that his shot had been placed just outside of reach. He’d never even eaten the damn thing, let alone cooked it. He had no goddamn idea. 

“I _tried_ , but I’m going off seeing other people cook it in the middle of service. Didn’t know what the hell I was doing which I guess was the whole damn point. Then he, he eats it, and he looks at me and he said - he said it wasn’t _good enough_ , but he was going to fire one of the prep cooks and… give me a shot at commis chef anyway, and that I couldn’t tell anyone about it until he said so.” 

“I don’t like where this is going.” 

“Huh, you’re smarter than me,” Dean says, “Cause I was - pretty stoked, actually.” 

He was fucking _delighted_. It wasn’t about cooking, then. It was about the pay rise. It was about what that could mean for _Sam_ , not about anything as crude as finding his freaking passion. It was just… practical. Financially beneficial. A goddamn opportunity to make it easier. 

“How old are you now?” Cas asks, eyes sharp as he traces semi circles on Dean’s thigh. 

“Uh, twenty one,” Dean says, trying not to look at Cas as he does the math. It’s pretty goddamn obvious how this story goes now he’s on the other side of it, but he still doesn’t wanna see the pieces fall into place in Cas’ head. _And when you first slept with a man?_ Cas is smart. He knows how this story ends. Dean could stop talking right now and Cas would still know exactly what fucking happened. “Yeah, cause Sam was dead set on freaking _Stanford_.” 

“Dean,” 

_He screwed up, he’s not a screw up_. 

“And then -- then suddenly I’m promoted again and I'm a line cook and he, Alistair, he’d just _be there_ when I was the only one in the restaurant which happened a lot, because - home sucked, Sam was a pain in the ass teenager desperate to escape and Dad was, well, not exactly a peach to be around a lot of the time, and the kitchen was an _escape_. I’d stay after the place was shut and cook. Then he’d show up and he’d ask my opinion about crap and…. I guess, at the time, it felt like a compliment, because… cause he knew about _food_. Proper restaurant shit, not that stuff I clubbed together in our crappy kitchen and - I learned a lot. Then, then Sam left for Stanford and I got my own apartment before Dad could take off and leave me high and dry and Alistair -- he cornered me one day when I was cooking after hours, and he said that he’d saw me looking at one of the new guys. Looking, looking, but that he wasn’t gonna tell anyone.” 

“Had you ever come out to anyone before?” 

“No, I mean, I didn't -- didn't really talk to anyone about anything, and... At school, my top priority was getting through the goddamn day. I _knew_ , but it felt like a damn sure way to make my life harder.” 

“Your life was already hard,” Cas says, head tilting, and… it _did_ suck. It fucking sucked, but Dean didn’t exactly make it easier for himself. He should have told Bobby and Ellen what was actually going on and things would have been different. It did _suck_ but it… it could have been a lot worse. 

“It was - fine,” Dean says, “I get it all sounds kind of bleak laid out like that and I'm not - not saying we were rocking the picket fence, but it could've been a lot worse. I was just trying to survive and I - probably hard for you to believe, but I'm actually not a total flailing dumbass when it comes to chicks. It's just - dudes that make me all - you know.” 

“Flustered,” Cas says, tempering the word with a warm smile and a hand to his cheek. 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “And then _you_ just short circuit my whole goddamn brain, with your goddamn everything.” 

“I have some wiring problems when it comes to you too, Dean,” Cas says, “And I find it incredibly endearing.” 

“Not supposed to be in endearing,” Dean mutters, “I'm badass and hot.” 

“That too,” Cas smiles, “I'm- sorry that the first person to know about your interest in men assumed the position that it should be a secret.” 

“Well,” Dean says, mouth dry. He tightens his grip on his glass . “It - he wasn't just the first person to know about it.” 

Cas tilts his head at him. 

_Slow cooking._

“How did it happen?” 

“I - honestly, don’t even know, ‘cause I hadn’t exactly been perving on my goddamn boss for two years, but -- he invited me over to to his place to help him plan the menu and… it seemed like a good idea.” 

That’s the fucking _thing_. He made an active choice to… to get involved. It didn’t just happened to him. He’s not naive to the fact that he was manipulated plenty, but he _made a goddamn decision_. 

“I… I wanted to _know_ what it was like, but I sure as shit didn’t want anyone to know about it, and Alistair had more of vested interested in keeping it secret than me. So we - it happened.” Dean says, swallowing back that mix of shame and regret that swirls around his head when he thinks about any of this crap. Dean shuts his eyes, and takes another sip of his whiskey. They’re through the worst of the story now, anyway. He might as well goddamn continue, even if it feels like he’s peeling his fucking skin off and… and _Cas_. He has no idea what Cas must think about him. “He let me design the menu, but he treated me like shit at work because _secrecy_ and then we’d fuck and it all - he was an asshole. Said a lot of crap. Mostly, he’d just… work out stuff that I already thought and say it out loud.”

That his Dad would walk out of he knew he wasn’t straight. That the only thing he was any good at was cooking and I was only good at that because _Alistair_ gave him a chance. That Sam went to Stanford to get away from him. 

“But… he always wrapped it all up in a way that made it sound like he was giving me a compliment and I just, bought all of it like a jackass --- for six months.” 

Cas is quiet and solid and listening and Dean just needs to get to the end of this fucking story and be done with it. 

“And -- and then he said something about Sam, and I just, it just hit me that it was bullshit. That _Sam_ wasn’t ashamed of me and then it all… unravelled. I’d been so fucking sure that I had it under control like the dumb kid I was and then I just - realised I had no goddamn idea how to get out of it. I, uh, quit without notice and decided to move to California within the week. Needed to get the fuck out of Lawrence and - I needed Sam.” 

“And that was that?” 

“No,” Dean exhales, “No, because I needed a reference to work in a kitchen and he… he made it pretty fucking clear that the only way that was gonna happen was, uh, quid pro quo. And I told him to shove his goddamn reference up his ass, and he said _fine_ , because it didn’t matter because even without the reference, every time I cooked I'd know it's because _he taught me how_... And that because of that... he'd still own me.” 

Cas’ mouth poises in displeasure. Dean’s never _said that out loud before_ because there was too much goddamn baggage attached to it and because the words felt like paper cuts in the inside of his lungs, because he didn't even want to entertain the fact that it... That there could be truth in it. 

“And - and I got stuck in this shitty nothing-cafe in California because I had _fuck all_ references, even though I’d been cooking for two goddamn years, and even there they wouldn’t let me _do_ anything. So, I -- walked into this proper restaurant that was advertising for a line cook. Good food. Not _douchebag_ food, but straight up honest grub, and I demanded they let me show them I could cook,” 

“Good,” Cas smiles, “What did they say?” 

“That my food was damned awesome, but no way in hell where they letting me anywhere near a _line cook_ position without references,” Dean says through a not quite bitter smile, “But Bobby - he knew a guy with a dinner. His best friend, actually, and Bobby just called me up one day and told me that I was starting on Monday, no negotiation.” 

“Did he know Alistair hadn’t given you a reference?” 

“He knew _something_ was up, but uh - turns out he knew a _lot_ of what was up, actually. Worked it out, I guess,” Dean says, shifting to look at him a little more, “One year cooking for Rufus. Man, I pissed him off trying to class up the joint, but I got profits way up and people started actually coming to eat and then… then I had a freaking reference. A good reference.” 

“A deserved reference.” 

“Rufus never meant to serve anything but bar food and I was driving him freaking crazy. Got a sous chef position some-fucking-how at this restaurant, restaurant. They were desperate, maybe, and then their head chef quits in the middle of service in the middle of this crazy week, and - “ 

“- they promoted you?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Not on purpose. There was no one else there to step up to the goddamn plate, but _damn_ , it was fun. And I was fucking awesome at it, so they kept me.” 

“But it wasn’t your food,” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “And- I’d gotten my GED way back when cause Sam nagged me into it, and he’d managed to talk me into this … this restaurant management course.” 

“So you _did_ go to college.” 

“Community college, dude,” 

“Yes, alongside working a very full time full time job.” 

“Whatever,” Dean says, as Cas runs absently runs a thumb over the hair on the back of his neck. Dean probably could have taken a guess that Cas would focus on that, given the piercing head-tilting look he’d gotten when that whole gritty conversation about not finishing _high school_ had come up in the first place. “But - I told Sam there was no way I was spending a penny of his college fund. He’d gotten pretty good scholarships and funding for his undergrad cause he’s a genius, and he insisted on working too - told him he didn’t have to but, uh, Sams pretty pig headed - and then he gets a fucking full ride for law school and tells me that even if, even if I was too dumb to acknowledge it myself, that my own restaurant was my dream and that he freaking demanded I go for it. Demanded. And - I can’t say no to Sam’s puppy dog eyes,” Dean says, melting into Cas’ touch, “And then I’ve got meetings with the goddamn bank about loans for the rest of the money and I have a freaking _restaurant_ and I’m hiring people and I have no idea how the hell it happened.” 

“Other than dedication and many years of hard work,” Cas says, sitting up to look at him, with those eyes and Dean is so fucking screwed when it comes to Castiel. “Dean, I _hate_ him.” 

Dean swallows. He’s not really sure what he was expecting. He doesn’t know what he wanted Cas’ reaction to be. Right now, he’s got no goddamn idea how he feels. It’s not relief or catharsis or any the rest of that hallmark crap, but it could definitely be worse. He doesn’t feel any _crappier_ than when Cas first bought up the conversation, but _fuck he hates him too_. Even thinking about Alistair makes his skin crawl. He fucking _hates_ him. He kind of wishes he didn’t give a damn about it all of it, because hating him...it means it still has some kind of hold on him. 

Still, he sure as shit doesn’t want to _dwell_ and he’s a motherfucking-pro at distraction techniques (talking about Donald Trump notwithstanding). 

“Yeah, well, his food fucking sucked, too.” 

“If I could review that restaurant, I would verbally eviscerate that man’s restaurant within an inch of his life, until he regretted ever subjecting the world to his _food_ and elected to rid the world of it himself.” 

“I would read the _crap_ out of that review,” Dean says, setting his whiskey glass down to kiss him, because that’s better than thinking about _that._ He can’t actually think about Cas and Alistair at the same time because it makes his brain grind to a goddamn halt and… he’d much rather think about Cas. There's not a damn thing in common between them. 

Cas keeps him a breath away from his lips though, still frowning. 

“Dean, you are _an exceptional_ human.” 

“Cas,” Dean says, with a sensation that feels like he’s being suffocated by his own spine, “I - this whole fucking thing has been the exact opposite of me being exceptional, so just. Just because some asshole got under my skin and screwed me over, doesn’t mean I don’t _suck_.” 

“I’m not talking about that,” Cas says, luring him in with that blue, blue stare and a not-quite smile. There’s a crease in his brow that Dean can’t decipher and he wants to learn fucking all of it. Each different micro-expression. What every head tilt means. That arch of the eyebrow. “I’m talking about your persistence against adversity and your determination to make your brother’s life easier than your own.” 

“He didn’t _take_ most of the damn money, Cas, I didn’t _do_ anything.” 

“Knowing that someone _would_ changes your options, Dean,” Cas says, setting his own glass down to twist into his goddamn space, freaking _cuddling_ him into goddamn submission, voice dropping low, soft, and gritty enough that he hears it on an atomic level, “You don’t owe that man for a single _second_ of your success.” 

_You don’t owe that man for a single second of your success_. 

_I know you're not classically trained or whatever the hell else some of your competitors are, but you're twenty nine with your own restaurant. You did that. You saved up and then you got the financial backing and you're making a good living, Dean, and that's not because of whatever happened when you were working for Alistair and it's - it's nothing to do what Dad did or didn't think, or where he is. It's in spite of those things. You are successful, at something you love and are good at. Of course Mom wouldn't have thought that was a waste of time._

Dean Winchester is not, in fact, a screw up. 

“I - not so sure about that.” “I was sure of that before I knew what you were successful _at_ or that this person existed,” Cas says, “Do you want to hear about my teenage quasi rebellion?” Cas asks, pulling the sheet over them and rearranging Dean’s pillow like he owns the place. Dean blinks himself out of his own head and resists the urge to make some dumb comment about braiding each other’s hair next, because talking about _Cas_ is exactly what he fucking needs right now. 

It’s a helluva lot easier to swallow if it’s reciprocal and _god bless_ Cas for knowing that. 

“I thought you were a nerdy dude with a perfect GPA.” 

“There's more than one way to rebel, Dean.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, twisting to turn to face him, “Yeah, I wanna know about all of it.” 

“Well, I told you that Lucifer and Michael raised us after our mother died, and your brother brought up the fact that they like to - compete in court.” 

“Yeah,” 

“The first time they went up against each other in court they were sueing each other for custody of myself and Anna.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“I was fifteen and Anna was seventeen and, it was an uncomfortable period. Gabriel and Raphael were at college and they had a disagreement over… How things should be done, but mostly I think they wanted to know who would win. It was a pointless pissing contest that resulted in both of us nearly being put into foster care, at which point Gabriel stopped it and refused to speak to either of them for six months.” 

“Wow, Cas, that's -” 

“Ridiculous? They are ridiculous,” Cas says, with a small smile. Cas described their parenting style as _laissez faire_ way back when, no mention of batshit-crazy-lawsuits so at least Dean’s not the one who didn’t spill his whole soul over that second coffee. Maybe a lot more of his soul than he ever meant to, but not quite all the goods. “This has been since accepted, but at the time - I was deeply angry at all of them. And at eighteen I elected to go to college very far away.” 

“Columbia,” Dean substitutes, thumb running across his hip. 

“Yes. Neither Lucifer or Michael had been able to go out of state because of their obligation to us, which is probably where much of this stemmed from, so I went very far away and made decisions that were entirely contrary to anything they recommended. Despite the fact that for a large part of the time, they _did_ have my best interests at heart.” 

“So _that’s_ how you wound up being a freaking tax accountant.” 

“Michael and Lucifer conflate money with both love and power in equal measure,” Cas says, “And they tried to pay off my student loans to drive me back here.” 

“ _Man_ we had different childhoods.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, with a smile as he reaches forward to kiss him again, “I took my very corporate job to pay off my student loans as quickly as possible to throw their offer back in their face.” 

“You - you earned a fuckton of money to stick it your brothers?” 

“I was - a pig headed _not_ teenager with authority issues,” Cas says, “And I thought I knew better than everyone else, but I was older and more privileged, which makes me inherently dumber than you deciding to quit school. Much less nobel.” 

“Think we can agree our younger selves were a couple of dumbasses,” 

“I prefer it now we’re just a couple,” Cas says, “Less dumb, less ass.” 

“Still more freakin’ ass than I’m used to in relationships.” 

Cas smiles wide and fucking gorgeous and leans forward to kiss him. It’s _way_ too fucking late for him to get caught up in the feel of Cas’ bottom lip and to pull him in, more and more, until Cas is more or less straddling him. It was late before they started talking. He’s got no goddamn idea how late it is _now_ but… but, fuck, he doesn’t give a damn. 

“What changed? With your brothers,” Dean asks, pulling away just enough to ask the question, Cas’ weight spread across his abdomen, “Cause - you all get on now, right?” 

“Anna got sick,” Cas says, pain flitting across his gaze for a split second, “She doesn’t like it when we fight.” 

“Sick how?” 

“She had a breakdown,” Cas says, “We all tried harder after that. _And_ they did raise us, Dean. For all their faults, they sacrificed a lot. I was being… petty. I apologised to them later.” 

“Family ain’t a picnic,” 

“No,” Cas says, “A _picnic_ sounds nice. We should do that.” 

“Sure,” Dean snorts, “I have a day off next Tuesday. When… when did _you_ come out?” Cas shifts until he’s bracketed in Dean’s arms, all loose and relaxed, and _talks_. 

Slow-freaking-cooking.

* 

It doesn’t occur to him to check the motherfucking _time_ until he realises that it’s getting light outside. 

“Its - _fuck_ , it’s late. It’s so goddamn late it’s early,” Dean mutters, gaping at his phone and sinking further down into his pillows into bed. Cas smiles and re-settles next to him, close enough that it definitely counts as snuggling (and, honestly, Dean stopped fighting _that_ internal battle freaking hours ago). Dean’s arm draws him on automatic as he closes his eyes. “We just - stayed up and talked all freakin’ night.” 

“It’s only four,” Cas says, soft and a little pleased, “That’s not all night.” 

“My alarm is set for five,” Dean says, eyes shut, “Probably need to turn that off. Kevin can… he can deal with prep himself.” 

“He’s your sous chef?” 

“Don’t have one, he’s - my best line cook. Him and Garth,” Dean says, reaching back for his phone to fumble a text to Charlie. _Haven’t slept yet. Not coming in for morning service_ before dropping it on his bedside table and pulling the sphere of Cas’ warmth closer. He and Charlie had that whole debate about boundaries already, which they only stopped having when Dean finally managed to goddamn _say_ that the reason he hadn’t made good on his promise of rebalancing his work life balance was because it got him thinking about Cas too much. Now is as good of a time as any to cash in on him not needing to be there so much. He needs _more_ time enjoying this before the rest of his freaking life starts. 

“What are you most afraid of?” Cas asks, like the dumbass questions they’ve been exchange for the past few _hours_. 

“Uh, planes,” 

“Really?” Cas asks, palm resting on his stomach. 

“Losing Sam,” Dean says, “That he’d - take off like Dad, but. Flying too. You?” 

“Anna killing herself,” Cas says, “I don’t really believe that she would, but for a while it seemed - plausible, and - I don’t know what I’d do,” Cas says. Dean skims his hand over his back, eyes still shut. He can't say anything to that with words, but he can draw him in closer and exhale slowly. “I’ve never said that out loud before.” 

“Saying out loud makes it seem more real,” Dean says, “But it - it’s not. It’s just how that stuff tries to take root and fester. It’s _better_ to say it out loud, if you feel it.” 

“You understand,” 

“For two years after Dad took off I -- I thought he was dead in a ditch with neither of us knowing about it and Sammy did too, but both of us were to fucking scared to say it, until we did. And -- he _might_ be, or he could be somewhere else and… and keeping it locked up in our heads didn’t change that. Anna’s okay and… and she’s got all of you in her corner.” 

“What’s your favourite colour?” 

“Not this bullcrap again,” Dean says, “Whatever, blue. Need to _sleep_.” 

“But I _missed you_ ,” 

“Pouting don’t work at four AM.” 

“Do you have any other burning secrets?” 

“Cas,” 

“We might as well discuss them tonight.” 

“If I cut my goddamn hand off from exhaustion in the kitchen tomorrow -” 

“- I am intending to hold you hostage and never let you cook anyone but me food again.” 

“ _Cas_.” 

“This means there’s something.” 

“ It don't. It means I'm freaking exhausted.” 

“This is my last question. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else, then we can sleep.” 

“Fine,” Dean says, peeling his eyes open to look at him, “Rhonda Hurley. My first fling in this state. Made me try on her underwear.” Cas stares at him, eyes wide and not at all like it’s _four in the goddamn morning_ and they’ve spent who the fuck knows how long exchanging trivia, all curled up in Dean’s bed. “Kinda liked it.” 

Cas is impossibly still for a few moments and then his breath is hot under Dean’s ear, lips skimming his earlobe, like they didn’t already re-consummate their relationship however many hours ago. Dean’s hands fall to his hips as he mouths along his skin with almost-intent, too freaking exhausted to do anything more than seek out the comforting warmth of Cas all close and tangible. 

“ _That_ is… the hottest image that has ever been presented to me at four AM.” 

“Got a pair,” 

“I - _fuck_.” 

“Sock drawer.” 

“You’re serious,” 

“Cold dead serious,” Dean says, cupping a hand around the back of Cas neck to draw him closer, eyes shut, comfortable exhaustion settled into his bones. He’s so goddamn relaxed right now. “Went and bought them on a whim.” 

“ _Damnit_ , Dean,” Cas says, mouthing along his jaw, “You - _damnit_.” 

“Huh,” Dean says, smirking at him, “Wiring problems.” 

“ _Tomorrow_ we are going to -- discuss this, in detail.” 

“Tomorrow,” Dean agrees, pulling him in closer and burying his face into Cas’ skin. 

_He gets a freaking tomorrow_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original plan said '14 chapters' and now I'm expanding by anooother chapter because this one was supposed to have a whole load of extra stuff and then it got loooooong.
> 
> So, 21 chapters. I'll be gr8


	20. Chapter 20

The problem with staying up till four in the goddamn morning talking about your damn feelings, is that it feels less just-out-the-oven-brownie-gooey-sentimental when his body clock still jerks him awake at _seven AM_ like he’s overslept, which he has by the standard of almost every other day of his life.

Fuck, he’s tired. Tired and _comfortable_ with Cas all curled up next to him, with the beginning of an exhaustion-headache forming in the centre of his forehead that wouldn’t goddamn exist if life was a little more like that hallmark crap. Apparently, he needs _sleep_ regardless of everything falling to place. 

Dean sits up and fumbles for his phone. Charlie text him back at some point with a _Roger that. Don’t freak out about Cas coming by the restaurant too much_ that Dean’s too freaking sleepy to deal with. He needs --- needs to catch her up, at some point, and to do something about his blossoming headache, and… to get the hell back to sleep.

Water.

He brings his phone as he stumbles to the kitchen and starts typing a message to Charlie before he gives up. Later. _Later_. He texts Sam as he faffs around trying to find some freaking painkillers. Sam’ll probably already be at the freaking office by now and he needs to pin down some _time_ , soon, to… reintroduce him to Cas. 

“- _Dean_ ,” Cas mutters, as Dean pushes open the bedroom door with his half drank glass of water.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice hoarse from sleep as he crawls back into bed, “Go the hell back to sleep, it’s early.”

“That’s _endemic_ of your company,” 

“Too fucking early for you to say crap like _endemic_ ,” Dean mutters, setting his phone back down. “Mr SATs.”

“You’re irritable,” Castiel says. His voice sounds even fucking deeper this early in the morning. The guy hasn’t even opened his eyes. He’s got one of Dean’s pillows wedged under his arm like a total adorable weirdo, with the sheets only covering up to his waist and he’s _gorgeous_. 

“Someone kept me up all night,” Dean throws back, “Headache.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Man, when I’m _up_ , I’m up.”

“It’s too early for me to make that into a euphemism,” Cas says, “Which is a great shame. Dean, you’re not going to work. _Sleep_.”

“Not that goddamn simple,” Dean says, rearranging his own pillow beneath his head and looking up at the ceiling. He could totally get used to this. Cas all cute and sleepy in his bed, giving him snark before he’s even fully conscious. “And I still gotta work _later_ , just not an hour ago.”

“I’m sure whatever you’re saying would be very interesting if I’d slept for more than four hours.”

“Three,”

“ _Damnit_ , Dean,” Cas says, turning over. The rest of the sheets get kicked to the end of the bed in the process (leaving him totally, completely, _naked_ as the day he was born, not that Dean can talk), then Dean’s got a pair of arms wrapped around his middle and Cas’ fingers skating over stomach. “ _Sleep_.” 

“S’too hot to cuddle.”

“I will have no more excuses about cuddling,” Cas mutters into his ear, “I _know_ you like it, you’re just being obtuse.”

“It’s August. It’s _hot_ ,” Dean says, but he’s already fallen into running his fingers through Cas’ hair, their breathing falling in sync. “M’ not gonna get back to sleep.”

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re bossy in the morning.”

“I’m bossy _always_ ,” Cas says, shifting a little to kiss the corner of his jaw. Dean shuts his eyes. His head hurts and it’s freaking bone-tired, but Cas is close and lovely and skimming his abdomen. Breathing in and out, slow and steadfast. “Goodnight Dean.”

“It’s - morning.”

“Good _morning_.” Cas corrects and Dean loses his train of thought in the warm hue of Cas’ tone and that segways into thinking about the feel of their legs tangled together, and that delicious curve of his thighs, and his goddamn hands, and every single thing that comes out of that _mouth_ and -

And he falls right back to sleep.

*

He wakes up a second time to the smell of coffee, rich and and hanging in the air, without the headache and without the groggy weariness in his bones. Instead, he feels downright _well rested_ which probably means it’s way, way too late in the day for him to be resurfacing but… _fuck it_.

Still, he’s so goddamn comfortable that he keeps his eyes shut and just rests until the last dregs of sleep have drained away. 

“Hey,” Dean mutters, rubbing the drowsiness away for his forehead and turning to look at Cas on the other side of his bed which is _exactly_ where that fluttering feeling in his chest thinks he should be. The guy has set up shop with his laptop propped up on his knees, nursing a mug of coffee in his boxers. “You’re - awake.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “You don't usually sleep in.”

“Didn’t,”

“Dean,”

“We had a whole conversation about it,” Dean says, twisting round to look at him. “Hours ago.”

“What?”

“Dude, this _morning_ we had a whole freaking chit chat about me not sleeping in.”

“I have no recollection of this,” Cas says, with a slightly pinched brow, head titled just so, “There was a conversation?”

“You - _damnit_. That’s fucking cute. What - what time is it?”

“Ten thirty.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean mutters, smothering the word into the pillow, “Haven’t slept in this long for a freaking decade.”

“This is an interesting potential point of contention in his relationship.” 

“D’you make a whole pot of coffee?” Dean asks, sitting up. 

“Yes,” Cas says, handing him his own mug without looking away from his laptop, “Top up, please.”

“Not your wait staff, Sunshine,” Dean says, taking the mug anyway because who is he fucking kidding, and heading to the kitchen.

His apartment is still chaos. Cas has moved most of his stuff into the bedroom, but his stress-whisk is still on the coffee table and he really _really_ needs to carve out some time to freaking unpack. Later. After Cas has gone through his changes of clothes. Not _now_. 

_Now_ , he’s going to take a detour to the bathroom to brush his teeth, because he’s pretty sure there’s gonna be making out in his future. 

“You know, uh,” Dean begins, opening the door with his hip and bringing in the two coffees, “Charlie’s got this new rule that I can’t work more than six days in a week.”

“Did you form a union against yourself?”

“No, she just talked some crap about better boundaries. The _point_ is I shouldn’t… shouldn’t be at work as much.”

“Dean, you worked a _sixteen hour_ day once. The number of days isn’t the problem.”

“That was a bad week,” Dean counters, “It’s not like that most of the time.”

“You work very hard,”

“Yeah, because otherwise the whole damn restaurant stops running and I go bankrupt and a whole load of people lose their jobs. _That_ aint changing, I -- I was just _trying_ to say that it… it won’t be like before. I’m gonna make more time to… to actually see _you_.”

“That wasn’t a criticism, Dean,” Cas says, “You just reopened your restaurant, refurbished with a new menu. I’m not naive to the fact that’s both a lot of work and a financial risk. We will work out scheduling.”

“I - I wanna actually _see you_.”

“Good,” Cas says, taking a sip of his coffee, “I have the advantage of having a remarkably free schedule.”

“You’re pretty freakin’ chirper considering it’s before eleven AM.” 

“Well, I've had writer's block. I've been trialling mornings and writing in coffee shops to make progress.”

“And have you?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “I have _progressed_ my coffee addiction a great deal and spent more money on pretentious lattes that I can consider reasonable.”

Dean snorts and runs a finger over the rim of his cup.

“But you - you're writing now.”

“I _was_ ,” Cas corrects, side eyeing him over his coffee, “That was a thinly veiled remark about you waking up and distracting me.” 

“I got it, jackass,” Dean throws back. Charlie has sent him another three messages, which basically equates to her offering to work out cover for the whole day and his suppliers meeting if he needs it, plus another Cas related pep talk that he probably doesn’t need at this point in the game. Sam has replied to his nonsensical 7am message to say _this week is crazy. Talk to me in September_ which is just freaking peachy. “You had writer’s block.”

“You shut your restaurant.”

“You knew about that, huh?”

“I drive past it on the way to the coffee shop.”

“Cas, there’s - a lot of coffee shops.”

“I am aware of that.”

“You wrote that… that our breakup made everything taste like bile,” Dean says, the words thick and sour in the back of his throat. God, Dean fucked up. He really, really fucked it up. Cas _had writer’s block_ and drove past his goddamn restaurant and Dean… Dean made him fucking _sad_. He hurt him. He really _hurt_ him. “Cas, your _blog_.”

“It’s done, Dean.”

“I’m -- I’m _sorry_.”

“I know that,” Cas says, adjusting his grip on his coffee and looking at him with those sharp-ass-baby-blues. He’s equal parts cute, badass-stern and hot and he could _definitely_ get used him being around, a lot, in his bed. All the goddamn time. “Now shush, I’m writing.”

“Nope,” Dean says, “Breakfast, Cas. We’re cooking,”

“No,”

“Come on, up. We're making French toast.”

“I'm very busy and important.”

“I _said_ I was gonna teach you how to cook -”

“ - You also said you'd cook me breakfast,” 

“You said I'd cook you breakfast,” Dean corrects, standing up and locating some goddamn underwear. Cas watches him pull them over his hips keenly enough that Dean can feel the heat crawling up his spine. Hot _damn_. And freaking _writing_ , Dean’s ass. He aint writing a damn thing. He’s just _looking_. Intently. At _Dean_. “Anyway - I'm still cooking. You're just - participating.”

“I prefer enjoying the view.”

“ _The view_ is heading to the kitchen.” 

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

“Castiel, up,” Dean says, hovering at the end of the bed with a quirked eyebrow, “I need you cracking eggs.”

“Fine,” Cas says, shutting his laptop with a decisive click, “But you can sieve the broken shells out yourself.”

Cas kisses him when they get to the kitchen. The _good_ kind of distraction-technique kiss that _almost_ makes him forget that he’s hungry. He’s usually been up long enough to have _needed_ a meal by now and his body hasn’t got the memo that all he’s done today is sleep. Anyway, cooking for Cas in his restaurant-kitchen is a little less intimate than his kitchen-kitchen and he’s fully intending to enjoy it.

“Not gonna work.”

“Dean - I _suck_ at cooking. It’s unfixable.”

“You suck because you get flustered,” Dean says, voice tipping over into gentle as Cas keeps his arms wrapped around him. “You're not inherently crap at cooking. You _understand_ food. You're just too in your head about it. And your _family_ are too in your head, too. Here,” Dean says, taking a step back to pass him the box of eggs. “Cas, it’s not gonna hurt you.”

“It _might_ ,” Cas says, mouth all frowny and fucking adorable as he takes the bowl Dean passes him. 

“See,” Dean says, slotting himself behind him, tracing his knuckles with his thumb. “Egg, bowl, crack. Done.”

“There's - the shell.”

“Then take it out,” Dean shrugs, “Dude. No one's gonna be reviewing your breakfast.”

“ _I_ might.”

“Stick that in your food column. From soup burner to expert egg cracker in fifteen easy steps.”

“I don't have a food column,” Cas says, expression painfully serious as he cracks another egg into the bowl. Less shell, this time. He’s _something else_ in one of Dean’s t-shirts with the fucking disaster that is his hair, expression like he’s sitting an exam rather than making breakfast.

“You could,” Dean says, “You could still sell your review.”

Cas sets down the bowl. 

“Dean,” Cas sighs, “I don't want to get back into this.”

“Cas - I don't _care_ ,” Dean says, grip tightening on the door to the fridge. Butter. He always figured if you’re doing french toast, then you should freaking _do it_. Cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla; butter on the skillet.

“I'm not exploiting anyone for money.”

“You're not exploiting me if I give you permission -”

“I'd be exploiting the fact that you have feelings for me, which I am definitely _not_ doing.”

“Yeah. Feelings that you deserve to freaking write.”

“Dean.” 

“I especially don't care what crap you wrote now you're - you're my boyfriend.” The word clogs in his throat a little, and, fuck. He… Yep, he's not completely freaking comfortable with that word coming out of his mouth, out loud. It's fine in his head, but--- out loud. Not _comfortable_. Oh, god. _Boyfriend_. Boyfriend. He is really _really_ not supposed to say that kind of thing _out loud_.

The only logical fucking thing to do with _that_ is to reclaim his stress-whisk and continue having this freaking argument with his _boyfriend_ while beating eggs. 

_Boyfriend._

“But that's the _point_ , Dean. It's ‘crap’.” 

“I didn't mean what you _wrote_ was crap,” Dean says, “It was smart and funny and a damn good review, I meant that - I don't care that it happened to be _about me_.”

“I am _not_ trash talking you in print -”

“ - What's the goddamn difference to trash talking me on the internet? Except that you get a paycheck. A _bigger_ paycheck, because you get advert revenue anyway-”

“The only reason I haven't deleted the damn thing is because I think you should keep a record of your mistakes to remind yourself what can happen.”

“Cas, I am _glad_ you wrote that stuff,” Dean says, turning the heat on under the pan with tension building up in his shoulders. Bread. That’s the next step. _Bread_ and somehow managing to communicate what he _means_ , rather than the bollocks that comes out of his mouth a lot of the time. “I'm not saying that I liked reading all that about myself, but I needed to hear it. I'm just saying that --- if you hate working for Gabriel so much, then you should take that opportunity to change it or _something_.”

“I have a plan,” Cas says, “And it doesn't involve selling anyone out.”

“That's not what I'm freaking suggesting-”

“ - Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “I think you deserve to write, because you're awesome at it and I never got to tell you _that_ because I couldn’t say that I’d read the damn thing, but fuck, Cas you’re insightful and _funny_ and witty-as-hell and I freaking hate food blogs, but I devoured pretty much every single fucking word you wrote and it wasn’t just because I’ve never been so attracted to a person in my whole damn life. I _get_ the integrity thing, okay, and I think you're goddamn awesome for it, but, but I’m pushing because if you didn’t run into me in that dumbass bar -”

“You _definitely_ approached me in that dumbass bar.”

“ - I, fine,” Dean says, putting the first round of french toast on the skillet. His memory of that whole evening is a little hazy, but it _sounds_ like the kind of jackass move that he would make. Cas has _Dean’s type_ written all over him, even more they’d had a freaking conversation. And if Dean had heard him _talk_ , then.... He’d need to plead the fifth to get out of it. “Fine. If I hadn't freaking hit on you, or invited you for goddamn breakfast or --- dated you, or let you find out you were reviewing my restaurant from my face on the menu, then it wouldn't have been personal, and you’d just have been reviewing my damn food and they _still_ would have made you that offer. What I don’t _like_ is that I cost you,” Dean says, turning the bread over.

Cas smiles, all crinkly and wide.

“What?”

“It just occurred to me that this is very amusing.”

That, he was not expecting. 

“ _What_?”

“I wrote that your garlic bread was closeted,” Cas says, corners of his smile all soft and inviting, “Dean. You found out I reviewed your restaurant while I was in your _bed_. Your _face_ was printed on the menu and now you’re rage-cooking me french toast.”

“I aint _rage cooking_.”

“You took my eggs from me,” Cas smiles, “A food critic and a chef walk into a bar. We should call Disney.” 

“You - what?”

“Think of the _screenplay_.”

“You know what,” Dean huffs, pulling out a plate, “Eat your goddamn toast. I’m having another coffee.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, still _freaking smiling_ , “Thank you for breakfast. It smells delicious.”

And… and he really can’t be expected to maintain stoicism when Cas says nice shit about his food. He really, really can’t. 

“Just make sure you tell Disney about the _assbutt_ line when you call them,” Dean mutters as he sits down opposite him with his own plate. Cas’ nudges him with his food under the table with his smartass grin and his eyes and apparently they play goddamn footsie now. He’s not even resentful about it. Not when he _wants_ this so goddamn badly or when it makes him feel so freaking good. Damnit, he’s a fucking _sap_ and he doesn’t even care because… Cas. He nearly lost his chance. 

He texts Sam back a _dude. I’m your brother. What’s the point of a weekend if you can’t find some damn time for your family?_ because there is no goddamn way this reintroducing shit is being pushed back till September. 

“I _have_ a plan, Dean. I’ve been applying for part time jobs for the past two weeks.”

“Writing jobs?”

“Jobs tangentially related to writing, that pay real money,” Cas says, “And still leaves time for me to write the _my boyfriend is a chef_ blog post that the internet is crying out for.” 

_Boyfriend_.

It sounds better in the rough timbre of Cas’ voice. Good. Fucking _awesome_. Dean is… Castiel’s _freaking boyfriend_ , despite all of it. Even though Dean told him all about Alistair and tidbits about John Winchester and even though Dean fucked it all up, on multiple occasions. Cas still wants that. Is going to put it on his goddamn blog. 

“Dean, the thing I detest about all of this, is that you were having an internal battle with yourself about being with me and I _didn't know_. That I had no idea that sleeping together while you were sober was significant or that kissing you in public crossed any one of your lines. You were panicking about something I was doing, and I didn't know about it.”

“That’s not your fault. I was .. I was into it, I just -.”

“You didn’t _want_ to be,” Cas says, “Dean. Please never let me cross one of your lines without telling me. I don't care where they are, or if you think I'll be irritated about them. I do _not_ want to do that again.”

Dean sets down his cutlery and looks at him.

Right. Honesty. That makes _sense_ , it’s just…. A little close to the bone. 

“Dean,”

“You’re gonna start that _you’re not ready_ shit.”

“As opposed to the _you’re going to change your mind_ shit,” Cas says, forehead a little creased. Cas…. Cas bought three changes of clothes and climbed back into Dean’s bed to set up shop with his laptop and his coffee. 

“I - wasn’t _rage cooking_ french toast, just - saying the word _boyfriend_ out loud, about myself kind of…. It was _fine_ when you said it. That’s what I _want_ , but there’s - still this fucking disconnect and it’s goddamn _annoying_.” 

“That seems like a very natural byproduct of being in the closet for a very long time,” Cas says, continuing to eat his french toast like that’s _not a big deal_. Dean stomach lurches a little. Goddamnit, Cas is too good for him. Way too fucking understanding about everything. “You seem fine to reference the fact that we’re in a relationship.”

“Never said my internal baggage made _sense_.”

“So we’re in a relationship and you’re happy for me to call you my boyfriend,” Cas says, all level and even, “You just experience discomfort when it’s applied to yourself. We can just find another word. Is _partner_ better?” 

Dean feels it out in his head. The world feels _safer_ even though it amounts to the same goddamn thing. Dean’s pretty sure his first instinct on hearing the word ‘partner’ is to _assume_ that it means _not_ hetrosexual-partner, but… that’s fine. It’s not _inaccurate_. 

Dean Winchester has a _partner_ who’s a badass food critic and a dick-owner and that’s all fine and dandy. It’s _good_ , actually, it’s fucking _awesome_ because Cas likes his food and says that Dean has _persistence against adversity_ and _determination._ He said Dean was _one of the most attractive individuals he’d ever seen_ and Cas is fundamentally good and funny and smart and gorgeous and Dean…. Dean freaking adores him.

Partner. Okay. Fine. He can work up to the word _boyfriend_.

“Uh - yeah,” Dean says, a piece of french toast skewered on his fork. Cas’ food nudges his under the table again and Dean gets caught up in looking at him. He smiles. A small, encouraging thing and _already_ this is all so much better than before. They’re actually communicating about stuff. This actually feels like an honest to god _relationship_ and that thought has burrowed under his skin and set up shop somewhere behind his lungs and it’s freaking awesome.“Yeah.”

“Good,” Cas says, then carries on eating his breakfast like it’s all _that easy_.

And maybe it _can_ be.

(He winds up inviting Cas along to his goddamn suppliers meeting as his official food critic, because this all feels too _new_ for fitting the rest of his life in the gaps just yet and because Cas is all kinds of interested about his restaurant and because Dean doesn’t really feel like saying _goodbye yet_ even if it’s only for a couple of hours).

*

Sam replies with a _you don’t take weekends off, jerk_ in what’s probably his lunch break. Dean scowls at it for a few minutes before typing out a _for you, Sammy, I’ll take off Saturday night_ while Castiel asks his tomato-supplier very serious questions about the affect coastal climates have on tomato yields. 

He looks about five seconds away from taking fucking notes and, yeah, Dean could fall in love with him so fucking easily it’s terrifying. 

And he’s kind of _at peace_ about it.

*

“Just gotta drop this stuff off at the restaurant and pick up some paperwork, then I’m good to go,” Dean says, parking round the back of the restaurant, “Then you can keep talking crap about tomatoes or whatever the hell else, dork.” 

“What paperwork?”

“Uh - numbers,” Dean says, “From my accountant. Gotta check the new menu is actually working, gotta check what’s being ordered, whether my predicted mark up is actual mark up, because there it’s kind of hard to predict how much waste there’s gonna be. Lot of crap I used to get Marv to do, except he’s an asshole and I fired him. Numbers. _Not_ cooking, which is the bit I’m actually good at.” 

“Interesting,” Cas says, brow furrowed.

“This something for your blog again?”

“Hmm, an article maybe. Day in the life of a chef.”

“Well _first off_ ,” Dean says, cutting the engine, “Most days in my life don’t involve some smartass quizzing me about goddamn _panties_ for the twenty minute drive to my business meeting. _Or_ lie ins. Or, you know, time off.”

“Are you _sure_ you have to work the dinner shift?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah. Kevin needs back up for dinner on a split-shift day _but_... after,” Dean continues, twisting the keys round his fingers as he heads for the trunk for the tomatoes. Cas intercepts him to kiss him before he can get there. The kind of kiss that reverberates down his spine; a toe curling kind of kiss that has his whole body twisting in Cas’ direction without conscious thought. God, Cas is hot. Maybe he _should_ skip work later.“Uh, _hey._ ”

“You looked happy. I wanted to taste it.” Cas says with a shrug. 

Fuck. 

He _is_.

“Uh,” Dean says, turning around and swallowing. He has got nothing sensible to say to that, at all. “You -- wanna get lunch?”

“At your restaurant?”

“I mean, we’re _here_ ,” Dean fumbles, “And you don’t think it sucks anymore.”

“Okay,” Cas says, looking at him with wide, piercing eyes, “Charlie.” 

Right. Charlie. 

“You get us a table,” Dean says, “I’ll handle Charlie and drop this crap out the back.” 

It doesn’t work out like that _obviously_ , because it turns out that Charlie is _out front_. Apparently, Dean’s not the only one with boundary issues, because Charlie definitely isn’t supposed to be waiting tables anymore. Kevin garbles some explanation about three wait staff calling in sick (which _dammit Charlie_ , he really should have known about) through the kitchen hatch, before it registers that if Charlie’s _out front_ than most likely she’s out front _with Cas_ which worked out just peachy last time. 

“-- -dude, this is so unlucky. You know Dean like never leaves this place, ever. I mean, I figured the whole reason he took the day off was to work out if he should just call you or whatever, but - I could get him to call you, text you, send him to your apartment with a grand grilled cheese gesture or something - I mean, whatever you want, I can talk him into it --”

Awesome. Not inaccurate but not _ideal_.

So. 

Coming out, version forty eight; the Cas-is-my-boyfriend-edition. 

“Hey Bradbury,” Dean says, “Got some tomatoes out back that I’m gonna need you to sample. Hey, Cas, you know what you wanna eat?”

“I - what?” Charlie asks, as Dean claps her on the shoulder and takes a seat. She looks at him for a long few moments before she slaps her hand over her mouth and makes a noise that sounds a little like _hickey_ except - he does not remember that happening - but Cas looks guiltlessly smug enough that apparently he _did_. 

Which makes _that_ conversation simple, if nothing else.

“You asshole,” Dean mutters, with an eye roll.

“Holy guacamole!” Charlie says, “This is the best thing that’s happened to me since you ordered the rainbow ice cream on the gay beach.”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie.”

“I need to hear this story,” Cas interjects, all warm and friendly, the polar opposite of what happened _last time_ the three of them were gathered round a table in this restaurant. It all looks different now, anyway. Stripped out and redesigned. 

“You _don’t_.”

“Okay, please can we be best friends now? I won’t ever do the Russian accent again -”

Dean snorts. Cas might have a point about this whole thing being freaking hilarious. 

“This service sucks,” Dean says, rolling back his shoulders and smirking at her. “What you gotta do to get a damn burger around here?”

“Charlie - would you like to join us for lunch?”

“Well, duh, but my jerk of a boss called in sick to get _laid_ so I’m rushed off my feet -”

“- what happened to _I want you to have a happy ending_?” Dean asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Not _that_ kind of happy ending. Although. This is _great_ \- really. Oh my god, are you together now? Okay, you know what, not my business yet. You two pick what you’re going to eat, I'm just going to - um. Check if we have enough of the special. Scream into a pillow. You know, work stuff. Aaaaaah.”

“Huh,” Dean says, watching her retreating back. “If Sam doesn’t call me within the hour I’ll eat my…” Dean trails off, turning to find Cas scribbling down words on one of his napkins. “You - you know I can get you some freaking paper from my office, Cas, ‘stead of you graffitiing my napkins?”

“Hm? Oh, apologies Dean, I just - this is good material.”

“That day in the life thing?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “ _This_ , I am sure I can sell.”

“Okay, knock yourself out,” Dean says, “If you’re working, I can price up these goddamn tomatoes."

By the time he’s retrieved his folder of invoices and gotten Cas some fucking paper, he’s got ink smeared over his hands and that look Dean recognises as having _finally_ gotten the inspiration and being shit scared that it’s gonna drop out of your head before you get it down.

“Hey,” Dean says, nudging his arm as he sits down, “You just using me to get past your writer's block?”

“Well, you _did_ use me to get past your chefs block,” Cas says, snarky as hell without even looking up from his napkin. “I ordered you Cas’ grilled cheese.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, shifting in his seat to look up at his restaurant. Cas is all concentration as he shifts seamlessly from napkin to paper, writing something that Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to pretend not to be interested in any more. Sam text him about an hour ago to say _Fine. Dinner Saturday night. Book somewhere_. Dean turns the phone over in his hands and types out _awesome. Double date_ before turning back to his crappy paperwork. Sam will work it out and they’ll have _dinner_ and start the introductions over. 

Dean’s gonna hire a sous chef. 

Pam, most likely, because a sous chef buys him more _time_ back from this place than anything else. He _loves_ this dumbass restaurant. He poured out his money and his soul and his time into it. It got him _Charlie_ and the best job he’s ever had. He’s got _Mary’s apple pie_ on his menu and he built up from the ground up, but he’s also got his damn partner _(/boyfriend)_ sat in one of the booths he picked out for an innocuous lunch date and he wants _more_ of it --- more time, more Cas, more of a fucking _life_.

The outline of the impala is on his menu, which is more personal than that bullshit life story Marv wrote ever could be, and the new decour feels a little like a mix between the Roadhouse and his blurred, time-worn memories of the Winchester family home. Cas already volunteered to help him finish unpacking all his crap into his new apartment at some point after round-one of trying to persuade Gabriel he knows what he’s doing but before he gets out his goddamn panties, and he’s still scribbling away like there’s a time limit. 

And Dean’s pretty damn sure that it’s all gonna work out just fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to goooo :) :) :)


	21. Epilogue

The problem with actually achieving your life dream, is that a lot of the time it doesn’t feel that dreamy when you’re up to your ass in _Thanksgiving specials_ , when the Sous Chef you hired to make your life easier is on freaking _crutches_ after some inane stair-related incident and his other top line cook is in a different state. He had a list of other things to freak out about the size of his arm _before_ he got the call from Pam and dragged himself here at the asscrack of dawn to battle it out with the rest of them against the festive-traffic, and now he’s losing his goddamn mind.

“Cas,” Dean hisses down his cell phone that Charlie bought in here five minutes ago, propped up against the hatch and on goddamn _speakerphone_ because Charlie got so fed up of Cas calling through to the damn restaurant phone that she insisted Dean just take the call. “You're emotional and irrational right now, which means you're about five seconds away from making a rash decision you're going to regret: _put down the goddamn potatoes._ ”

Dean Winchester is losing his goddamn mind. 

“Dean, they _suck_.”

“You throw them away, then so _help me_ Castiel -” Dean says, wiping a spare speck of sauce off the side of the plate of the next order of Specials before signaling to Dorothy that it’s ready. This whole fucking day is _ridiculous_ and not getting any less so and the flat expression of _what-the-fuck_ that Dorothy gives him as she takes the four top is six thousand percent warranted.

“ - I don’t know what to _do_ ,” Cas says from the other end of the phone line, sounding pathetic and distressed enough about it that whatever resolve Dean had about being sucked any more into this franky _batshit crazy_ situation crumbles. The last few months haven’t helped him build up a resilience against Cas sounding all sad, so apparently he’s the dumbass entertaining this whole conversation in the _middle of fucking service_.

He has absolutely no goddamn idea what his brigade must think right now. Except, most of them know Cas and most of them read his weekly my-boyfriend-is-teaching-me-to-cook blog (and quote Dean at Dean, because they’re all regular goddamn comedians) and they _all_ know that Dean was definitely not supposed to be on shift today.

Fuck it.

“Take a picture of the potatoes and send it to me.”

“I can do that.”

“Awesome, Kevin, where's my four top: one both ways, one brunch, two thankless burgers? You said _two minutes_ last freaking decade, so I need you to hurry the fuck up -”

“ -But you -” 

“ - if you tell me I'm on the phone, Tran, I'm gonna tell you step by step how to make a salad until you _dream_ about it,” Dean says, glancing at the next ticket and getting distracted by his phone pinging a message. “Zeke -- open that up. I - okay, Cas, they look a little over boiled, so turn the oven down and put ‘em in five minutes after I said to, make sure the edges crisp up - _Kevin_ , how long?”

“One minute, chef -?”

“You hear that, Duke?”

“- Heard, garnish walking in one minute -”

“ - Okay,” Dean says, wiping down the plates, “You got that, Cas?”

“ - But what about the turkey? I can't turn the oven down or I'll kill people with the turkey - ”

“ - look, has Gabe got a top oven -?”

“It's _our_ oven,” Cas says, like _now_ is the time to be defensive, when Dean’s relatively sure that before they started dating Cas had used the oven twice in the two years he’s lived there. Whatever. 

“Okay, does _your_ oven have a top oven? Kevin - looking good on the special, Dorothy - I've got your four top right here, calling two Thanksgiving special next up, you hear me?”

“Heard - three minutes.”

“Cas, your turkey is gonna be fine.”

“It _won't_.”

“I will not let you serve a turkey that's gonna kill people, I swear.”

“Dean - I don’t have a top oven,” Cas hisses and, _goddamnit_ the guy is a badass ex-accountant who says exactly what he thinks and cut away all the fucks he used to give about what other people thought about his life choices a long time ago, and the only thing that can pack panic into his voice like that is _cooking_. 

It should be noted that it sure as shit wasn’t _Dean’s idea_ for Cas to commit to Fake Thanksgiving Dinner, even before his ass got dragged into work.

“Okay, _fine_ , Dean says, “It’ll be fine, Cas.”

“ - Dean - _it’s not going to be fine_.”

“Is Gabe there?” Dean asks, “Hey - _Duke_ , I need that garnish for two Thanksgiving specials in three minutes, not next week, so _drop that goddamn garnish_.”

“Yes,” Cas says, still flustered and hot.

“Okay. Get him to help with the potatoes, Cas. I _swear_ I’m gonna be there as soon as I can -”

“- He won’t _help_ Dean, he just keeps making _puns_.”

“What? Cas, put him on the phone,” Dean says, as Kevin dashes past him with to grab more of the cranberry ketchup, making a point to raise his eyebrows in Dean’s direction as he goes, which is fair. This whole thing is insanity with a capital I. 

Losing his _goddamn mind_. 

“Dean,” Gabriel says, all cheerful and calm, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Help your damn brother out before has a coronary, Gabe.”

“Well, Deano, it wasn’t _me_ who volunteered to host the Milton family pre-Thanksgiving dinner at my apartment soo… No.”

“Gabriel,”

“No can do Losechester and if that’s -”

“- I’m supposed to be there, Jackass. Help the guy out.”

“Hmm. No,” Gabriel says, “And, honestly, some of the language around here has been downright _fowl_.”

“ - Gabriel, if you make _one more turkey pun_ I am putting you in the oven instead -” Cas hisses in the background, as Gabriel laughs loudly. An oven door shuts with a decessive _bang_ on Cas’ end that makes Dean clench his jaw with concern. Damnit.

“Oh, eat shit Gabriel. If you think I’m making you another goddamn peanut butter pop tart Sundae after _this_ -”

“ - I can and will withhold pie.”

“Pass me back to Cas,” Dean snaps, “And _Duke_. Do your ears not goddamn work? Drop the damn fries or it’s a _refire_ on two thanksgiving specials and I did _not_ come to work today for us to wind up in the weeds.” 

“Dean.”

“Okay - Kevin, take over for two minutes, I need a break,” Dean says, snatching up his phone and switching it off speaker, headed for the kitchen door. He’s not dealing with Cas’ voice sounding like _that_ with witnesses. “ _Cas_.” 

“You weren’t supposed to be working.”

“I know, but I need you to _chill_ the hell out,” Dean says, dropping his voice to soft as he heads to his office and pulls the door shut, “It’s just _dinner_ , Cas. It’s food, okay, not the apocalypse. Whatever you do or don’t do to your potatoes, everyone’s gonna be fine.”

“I do _not got this_.”

“Then turn the oven off right now, come down here for a goddamn hug, and wait till I clock off before we finish it off,” Dean says, “Cas, you’re more worried about me meeting the rest of your family than this, you’re just - projecting.”

“I want them to _like you_ , Cas says. 

“Me too,” Dean says, sitting down to massage his forehead. He’s tired as hell and cranky and downright resentful that he’s stuck in his goddamn kitchen rather than over at Cas’ place because, _usually_ this teaching Cas to cook thing is fun. _This_ might have been stressful anyway, but he’s got so much second hand anxiety right now. Jesus Christ. “But that’s a hundred percent _separate_ to them liking your potatoes.”

“My overboiled potatoes.”

“Right, your _slightly_ overboiled potatoes.” 

“It’s not separate if I kill them with this turkey,” Cas says, and Dean can just imagine the accompanying pout. God, Cas is cute. Cute and seriously stressed out about the whole freaking meet-the-family-shtick that felt like it came out of nowhere, even though this plan has been in place for months. It was all going _fine_ and then it was goddamn November and Cas starting losing his shit, and Dean’s not really all that clear that he’s been helping. He's tried plenty. He just doesn't know if it made a damn difference.

“Then we’re all _dead_ and I don’t really give a damn if Michael still holds the face-on-the-menu thing against me,” Dean says, “Cas.”

“I -I need you.”

“Yeah. Snap,” Dean says, “Look, we got a twelve top and a six top, then the rush is over and I’m gonna be there. We’re booked up and I gotta get back out there but the _second_ I can leave -”

“ - I know,” Cas says “I’m sorry for disrupting you.”

“Hey - don’t apologise,” Dean says, “Punch Gabriel in the face for me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Two hours, max.”

“Okay,”

“Okay,” Dean says, hanging up and pocketing his phone before heading back to his kitchen.

They’re halfway through the the twelve top when Cas rings back about goddamn stuffing. 

Losing-his-mind.

“Cas, fucking _chill_ and Kevin - where the hell is my thankless special -?”

“Two minutes,”

“Okay, Cas, I really need to -”

“Uh, Dean, there’s two guys here who wants to pass his compliments to the chef -”

“ - Is that - ?”

“Tell them the chef accepts their compliments, but is currently occupied twice over, because Charlie, I do not have time right now to -”

“ - And they requested a order of closeted garlic bread and, um, an overcompensating Mac and cheese burger. Look like how Cas would look if he was a corporate banker, and also sleazy.”

“ - Mother _fuck_ , Cas - I have to go,” Dean says, picking the damn phone up and wedging it under his ear.

“ - _you cannot abandon me with this stuffing_.” 

“Your freaking brothers are in my restaurant, Cas,” Dean says, “ _Kevin_ get me my damn Thanksgiving specials before my head explodes and then you need to run this ship because I am _out_.” 

“Oh,” Cas says, voice small, “I owe you _significant_ compensation after today.”

“No shit,” Dean mutters, “Give me an hour. Kevin.”

“ _Go_ , Winchester, you’re distracting the crap out of everyone anyway,” Kevin says, “ _Okay people_ , I need two Thankless Specials and three more Thanksgiving fries and we’re all set. Duke - hurry it up -”

“Okay,” Dean says, pocketing his phone and spilling out the kitchen.

“We need to fire Duke,” Charlie says, meeting him out back and trailing him to his office for a minute to _breathe_ before he heads out front to meet Michael and Lucifer. Holy crap. Cas’ brothers. Not _Gabriel_ , whose about as intimidating as a pot-plant at this point in the game, but the guys who instigated a _custody battle_ when Castiel was in tenth grade to prove who could use their shiny-new law degrees the best. Michael, who learned how to cook in the wake of their mother’s death to get Cas to eat. Lucifer, who gave Cas his first drink, cigarettes and condoms. The brothers who offered to legally disembowel him after the whole food-critic-restaurant thing.

Just _awesome_. 

“Yep,” Dean says, “But I ain’t going into December with a chef down. He’s better than being a pair of hands down.”

“Barely,” Charlie says, “I’ll make some calls. Sooo… that’s Cas’ other brothers?”

“Two of em,” Dean says, shedding his chef whites in his office and swallowing, “The ones who raised him.”

“ _Huh_. So this is like meeting the parents _and_ the big brothers in one go.”

“Not helpful,” Dean mutters, thumbing out a text to Cas. _Add water bit by bit- if it gets too wet add bread. Only needs 30 m to cook so you can leave it till get there. You’re gonna be fine._ “You still - coming over for fake Thanksgiving after your shift?”

“Yep,” Charlie says, “Good luck with the Bros,”

“Thanks,” Dean says, biting back the desire to lock himself in his damn office and never come out. There’s only room for one of them to freak out today and _apparently_ , it’s Castiel. 

Anyway, Dean’s a big brother. He knows how this crap works. He may not have _done_ the meeting-the-family crap in any other relationship he’s been in in his life, but… 

It can’t be _worse_ than the time Dean printed his own goddamn face on the menu.

“Michael, Lucifer,” Dean says, approaching their table with his stomach clenched. Charlie’s description is pretty damn accurate, actually. They don’t look _that_ similar to Cas now, but a little more like the photos of Corporate-Cas from his personal dark days or wealth and lack of fulfillment. 

“So, _this_ is Castiel’s… personal chef,” The one Dean’s pretty sure is Lucifer drawls, looking him up and down with a smirk that has a stunning ability to make him feel like all of his insecurities are printed on his forehead. Fucking ace.

“Boyfriend,” Dean corrects, pulling up a chair, “Although, that too.”

“So Dean, are your insecure, petty and lacking in substance Zucchini fries still on the menu?” Probably Michael asks, leaning forward with his eyebrows raised.

Fucking-wonderful. 

*

Cas doesn’t open the door when he rings the doorbell, which is his first indication that the guy has gone so far off the reservation with this cooking slash meeting the family panic that it’s going to take more than a goddamn talk-down. Dean’s got a twelve pack of beer wedged under his arm as he fumbles with the key to Cas’ apartment that’s been attached to his car keys since October and then -- the whole damn place is _sheer fucking chaos._

“Cas?”

“Dean,” Cas says, looking up from his bowl of what _could_ be stuffing, if stuffing generally had the colour and consistency of cement. He has freaking cranberry sauce smeared over one eyebrow, the ‘kiss the cook’ apron that Gabriel bought (because Gabriel is an asshat) tied so wonkily around his waist that it’s only protecting half his shirt and Dean is so goddamn in like (/ love) with his crazed-ass-cooking, it’s a little hard not to just stand in the doorway of the kitchen and smile at him. Still, not that goddamn time. 

“Cas, get over here.”

“No _time_.”

“Castiel, put the damn spatula down and get over here,” Dean says and apparently something in his voice is serious-enough to snap Cas out of his crazed-mixing and to set down his spatula and to acquiesce into a hug. He sinks into the touch when he gets there; his hands knotted around Dean’s neck, close and warm and _breathing slowly_. “Hey.”

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, not letting up, muttering the words into Dean’s neck. Dean moves his hands to rest on his lower back and exhales. Fuck, he missed this _all day_.“This - is not going very well.”

“What happened to Gabriel?”

“I threw a potato at him, so he went out.” 

“You are so fucking awesome,” Dean says, leaning back to kiss him, “And you’re taking a ten minutes break.”

“Dean, _dinner_.”

“Dude, I insist _so_ hard,” Dean says, “And I’m getting you horizontal before you implode.” 

“ _Time_.”

“I _will_ carry you.”

“Fine,” Cas says, petulant as always, “Carry me.”

“Oh-kay then,” Dean says, lifting him up bridal-style because _screw it_ , today has been long and stressful and crappy and he’s not in the mood for denying himself what he wants. Especially when the result is Cas smiling into Dean’s neck and _god_ they’ve been acting like totally dumbassess all day. 

Dean deposits him on his bed and collapses down next to him. If he’s being honest, the break is as much for his own benefit as Cas’, because -- all he’s wanted this whole goddamn day is to be here. Cas rests his head against and his chest and wraps his arms around him _just so_ and it’s so much goddamn better that _not_ being snuggled up on Cas’ bed on top of the covers. 

“It’s exceptionally hot when you do that,” Cas says, the words vibrating through Dean’s chest from proximity. 

“You’ve got cranberries under your freaking collar,”

“There was a food processing incident,” Cas says, close enough that words are hot breath under his ear, “There are also cranberries on the ceiling.” 

“You - why were using a _food processor?_.”

“The internet said it would help,” Cas says, “I hate the internet.”

“God, you’re awesome,” Dean says, hand settling on his lower back and shutting his eyes, breathing in and letting his body relax, “Badass, sexy, smart, gorgeous, hilarious.”

“Bad at cooking.”

“Little bit,” 

“Why did you let me do this?”

“Okay, chuckles, let’s get something straight. I never said you were ready to cook _Thanksgiving_ dinner. Next year with my help _maybe,_ but not now.”

“Next year? I’d like that,” Cas says, shifting to settle more or less on top of him, knee either side of Dean’s thigh. It’s a damn rouse to lean forward and press their lips together and melt into a slow, languid kiss that floods all of Dean’s limbs with contentment, but Dean’s not exactly complaining. _Next year_.

Next _year_.

Dean just started talking about _next year_ like that’s a dead cert without even realising and… and Castiel said _I’d like that_ and that’s a good of a reason as any to coax Cas in closer and deepen their kiss because… _next fucking year_.

This is going to work. This is going to _keep on_ working. 

“Michael and Lucifer. You met them,” Cas asks, pulling away just enough to talk without their lips brushing. 

“Yeah, they were kind of jackassess,” Dean says, “Asked if you called me _Chef_ in bed.”

“Did you tell them I do?”

“Did I develop some kind of post-orgaism amnesia or something? Cause that - that _never_ happened.”

“No, but it would have made them uncomfortable,” Cas says, absently brushing Dean’s arm with the back of his hand, “A very _worthy_ goal.”

“Thought you wanted them to _like_ me.”

“That would help.”

“Your family are kind of weird, Cas.”

“Yes,” Cas says, pressing their lips together, “ _Chef_ ”

Cas is so fucking perfect. 

*

Cas’ stuffing is _harder_ than cement and Dean’s not really sure how he’s achieved it, but then again he’s learnt a lot about the scope of Cas’ ability to fuck-up food. The guy’s basically a genius with a heart-of-gold and the IQ of a freaking academic, but unless Dean talks him through frying an egg step by step it winds up both undercooked, overcooked and rubbery. _Dean_ will eat whatever it is either way, but he’s pretty sure Cas’ family won’t be quite as generous.

“Okay,” Dean says, “Turkey just needs basting which you got down, I’m gonna… make more stuffing.”

“How bad is it?” Dean kisses him rather than getting into the details. “Ah, bad.”

“Your potatoes are good.”

“How good?” 

“Okay, less _Auberge du Soleil_ good, more than dinner on University Avenue good, but - wouldn’t send it back.”

“Where wouldn’t you send it back?”

“Uh. Bobby’s house,” Dean says, “Maybe a roadside joint _but_ \- we can season and crisp em up, they’ll be _good_ , good and - the turkey smells good, stuffing is - redoable - and then I’m gonna honey roast the vegetables.” 

“You said _simple steamed vegetables_.”

“Yeah, cause I was trying not to overwhelm you, but -”

“ - I am _whelmed_ to the maximum.”

“I’m handling the veg,” Dean says, leaning forward to kiss him against the counter for a brief moment, because the four minutes of cuddling Cas’ anxiety into submission probably didn’t fix all of it. Cas is _freaking out_. Dean’s never seen him like this. Not all _unreasonable_ and stressed. “Cas, we got this.”

“Okay,”

“Cas,” Dean says, hand dropping to his waist and cosying up to him, “Trust me.”

"Okay," Cas agrees, the tension in his shoulders bleeding away as he steps back towards the counter and then they fall into a familiar rhythm of _cooking together_. It's been months and Dean still has no idea why it's so goddamn exhilarating, or addictive and satisfying down to his atoms, but it's not something he's gonna question all that. Not when they can just keep on cooking.

*

The concept of Lucifer and Michael has its own attached apprehension, but Anna is the one he’s been losing sleep over. Anna Milton is the first person Cas ever came out to; the confidant. The one Cas spoke to after the face-on-the-menu incident, at length, for days. _She’s_ the one that Cas looks up to and idolises in almost all things, from her art to her even temperament. She’s conflict-averse, quietly-passionate and the centre point their whole damn family orbit around. Anna not being able to make it to the official Milton Thanksgiving is the reason why this whole fake Thanksgiving was sparked off in the first place. Dean meeting the rest of them was just a fringe benefits and a way to prevent Cas having to leave town the one part of the Thanksgiving week he wasn't (supposed to be) working.

If _Anna_ doesn’t like him, that’s a problem. 

A big goddamn problem.

Dean subconsciously drops his hand from Cas’ lower back as Gabriel opens the front door with a familiar peal of laughter, then he’s freaking _surrounded_ by Miltons, and it’s not even _all_ of them. Raphael isn’t coming and neither are the other halves and cousins that Cas definitely talked him through already, but having freaking _Gabriel, Lucifer, Michael and Anna_ is definitely… definitely _enough_ to be going on with. 

“Is that _my little brother_ in an apron?” Lucifer says, “So it’s true. You’ve been _cooking_.”

“Hello, Lucifer,” Cas says, moving imperceptibly closer into Dean’s personal space. It’s almost _protective_ which tells Dean a little more about how Cas is expecting this to go. As in, not well, which just about figures. Dean’s not sure what _he’d_ do if Sam bought round a girlfriend who broke his heart - albeit temporarily - for dinner. Give her the crappiest portion of potatoes, probably. Withhold pumpkin pie. Serve her salad or gluten free anything. 

Actions have consequences. He deserves it. 

“Well,” Michael says, “Nothing is _actually_ on fire, so I’d say that was an improvement.” 

“It smells good, Castiel,” Anna says.

“That would be the parts of the meal Dean cooked,” Cas says, now close enough to reach out and resume thumbing over the bottom of Dean’s shirt like he had been _before_ they had company and -- okay.

_Okay_. 

PDA. He’s working on it. 

“Dean Winchester,” Anna says, gaze settling on him with a small smile, “I’ve read _lots_ about you.”

“Anna,” Cas says in warning. The _please be nice_ is implicit, but loud as hell. Anna’s smile broadens, then blossoms wide and lovely in away that reminds Dean so much of _Cas_ that it knocks something loose in his brain. 

“Uh, hopefully that includes some of the more recent blog entries,” Dean says, with an attempt at a winning smile that probably makes him look like he has food poisoning, “And Cas’ cooked most of this stuff. I just… showed up at the end.”

“God help us all,”

“It’s good to _finally_ meet you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gabriel interjects, “Asshat’s been clogging up the place for months.”

“ _Right_ , like you don’t make dinner requests.”

“Gotta make the most of the situation, Deano,” Gabriel says, heading to the fridge to deposit four bottles of honest-to-God-champagne that someone turned up with (Michael, Dean’s betting), “If you’re going to be here with your five AM alarms -”

“ - you _bought lasagna ingredients_ and summoned me here, dude.”

“I was hungry,” Gabriel shrugs, “And I gave you pie.” 

“So _Dean_ ,” Lucifer says, “Tell us about you _Restaurant_.”

He’s saved by the oven timer going off.

Cas looks so goddamn alarmed about it that it’s almost freaking comical. 

“ - Dean,”

“Got it,” Dean says, ducking back into the kitchen. Cas set the damn alarm but Dean’s about eighty percent sure that it was a _basting reminder_ rather than anything else, which is fine. Easy to deal with, actually. Much more in his comfort zone than wading into the Milton-medley. 

“You like him a lot,” Anna says _suddenly_ goddamn behind him (and Cas aint the only one who needs to wear a bell, motherfuck). 

“Uh - yeah,” Dean says, adding a little more rosemary to the potatoes. They’re not gonna be as crispy as he’d like them, but considering they’re pretty damn good. “Yeah.”

“I can tell,” Anna says, half leaning against the counter as she watches him turn a couple of the potatoes over in the oven. Back in the main room, Gabriel says _raise your gobble-lets_ and Cas bites out a _Gabriel, no more puns_ with as much bite as Dean’s ever heard him address his brother with. They’re all fucking ridiculous, obviously, but it’s… nice. “You’re going to fit in just fine, Dean.”

“ I -”

“Dean, your brother,” Cas says, stepping into the space of the kitchen - apron still on - and looking at him with open affection, tainted only a little by his obvious stress. “I just buzzed him up.”

“Okay - two minutes,” Dean says, nudging the oven open with his knee to return the potatoes to the heat. Ten more minutes till the turkey needs to rest and then it’s just a waiting game. He puts eight minutes on the timer, because he’s pretty damn sure that he’ll need the two minutes to extract himself from whatever conversation he’s been pulled into and _get_ to the oven.

“...Charlie, Sam Winchester,” Cas supplies, door to his apartment half open as they all shed their coats, “And his girlfriend, Jessica. Sam this is -”

“ - a whole _bucket load_ of Miltons,” Charlie says, “The best friend, checking in for duty. How are them potatoes treating your, Cassie?” 

“Charlie runs the restaurant with Dean,” Cas says, “They’re distinctly average.” 

“Oh, the one with the Russian accent?”

“Guilty,” Charlie says with a mock wave. 

“Hey,” Sam says, glancing around at everyone, “Uh -”

“Introductions,” Lucifer says, “Cassie, you’re being very remiss in hosting.”

“You’re remiss, generally,” Cas says, “This is - Lucifer, Michael and Anna. Sam is Dean’s younger brother and -”

“ - a massive fan,” Dean substitutes, “Dork.” 

“A _fan_?” Lucifer asks, fixing his gaze on him, “ _Really_?”

“Sam just graduated from Stanford law,” Jess subs in.

“He saw one of your trials.” 

“So, _you’re_ the smart one.”

“Shut up, Lucifer, Dean is -”

“Dude, Sam is the smart one.”

“ But Dean cooks.” Michael puts in.

“Sam might cook -”

“ - I, wow,” Dean mutters into Cas’ ear, “Freaking _wow_.” 

“ _Dean_ , tell me again about your overcompensating burger buns?”

“Michael,” Cas says irritably, “If you’re going to quote my blog at me, at least do it _accurately_ , and -- stop insulting my boyfriend.”

“Oh _please_ Castiel,” Lucifer says with a drawl and a spark in his eye that makes the resemblance between him and Gabriel noticeable for the first time, “You know we all came here for a roast.”

Gabriel laughs for five whole goddamn minutes and insists they open the champagne. It’s both the most surreal and normal experience of Dean’s whole freaking existence. 

*

Dinner is _almost_ good, in a artless homely kind of way, with overladen plates and everything not quite the same temperature. The seasoning is a little unbalanced and there’s too many things fighting for dominance on the plate, but that just about figures as a decent metaphor given the number of Miltons currently sat round the table. 

“You have, what, four jobs right now?” 

“Five,” Michael says, “Or maybe it is four,”

“Three.”

“Six, if you count Amateur Chef.”

“That is not logical math,” Cas says, “I have one part time communications role at a not for profit promoting youth arts programs, my blog and semi regular commissions from a food magazine -”

“ - And, he helps me out when I'm short,” Gabriel says, “ _And_ he's my accountant.”

“Is that eight?”

“ _Michael_.”

“What’s a turkey’s favourite Thanksgiving food?” Gabriel asks, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table. He quirks up his eyebrows in Sam’s direction and pauses for dramatic effect because he’s a total jackass. “ _Nothing_. They’re already stuffed.”

Cas exhales and nudges their knees together under the table. Dean eats another mouthful of Cas’ rock-hard stuffing and offers him a _family, huh?_ kind of look. It takes a moment for Cas to drink in the moment, then he shifts his chair closer to him. Good. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Michael says, “Tells us more about the blatant sublimation in your Zucchini fries.” 

“ _Michael_ , if you insist on regurgitating my words back at you then you should at least be exact, or I _will_ get Lucifer to sue you for defamation.” 

“Castiel, _Dean_ would have to initiate the law suit, which would be endlessly entertaining.”

“And you’d have to prove falsehood, which…”

“Think you’d have a harder time proving injury,” Sam butts in, because his brother is apparently a total fucking dork who is definitely _supposed_ to be on Dean’s side - that was the whole _point_ of them being here tonight. 

“Dean could probably sue _you_.” Lucifer adds, cocking his head to look at them both. “How about it, Winchester?”

“Uh, pass,” 

“Wait, you’re _eating_ that stuffing?” Michael asks, enough disbelief packed into his voice that it brings the whole conversation to a halt. _Then_ Dean’s got a whole table of people watching him eat Cas’ crappy stuffing. 

“He does that,” Gabriel says,

“ _Wow_ ,” Lucifer drawls, tapping the stuffing in question with his fork and raising a stark eyebrow. “This is _edible_?”

“And you still have all your teeth?”

“Perhaps you soften it with gravy and _then_ eat it.”

“Hey, Castiel has done well,” Anna says, with her usual gravitas. A little of Lucifer’s older-bravado disappears into himself as she speaks. Castiel almost smiles as she speaks. “Almost everything on my plate is edible, if not enjoyable.” 

“Compared to the Soup Triumph of 2012.”

“May that oven rest in peace,” Michael, Gabriel and Lucifer say in goddamn _unision_. 

“This is... freaking ridiculous.” 

“Welcome to the madhouse, Loosechester.” 

*

“I have been a pain in the ass,” Cas declares, resting his palm on Dean’s knee as Dean drives then back to his apartment. There’s some sleeping arrangements tetris happening at Cas’ place which Dean’s pretty sure means that Gabriel is crashing at his probably-ex-girlfriends and Cas is at Dean's (not that that hasn’t been the status quo for freaking ages, but whatever). Dean’s just glad for some goddamn quiet after whatever _that_ evening was. 

It was... a _lot_. Actually kind of awesome to see Cas in his home environment, bouncing off his brothers, but still a little bit like being slapped in the face with something sharp and citrusy and mildly terrifying. 

_They’re going to have a next year_. 

“You could have been _less_ a pain in the ass,” Dean says evenly, “Whatever, Cas. Thanksgiving - even the fake kind -ain't no picnic.”

“Do you think I could pull off a picnic?” 

“You could've pulled off a picnic months ago,” Dean snorts, “Your family - I like them.”

“No one likes Michael, Dean.”

“Thought Lucifer was the asshole.”

“He is,” Cas says, “but he’s the asshole that everyone tries not to like, Michael is the one people actively dislike.”

“They love you,”

“Yes,” Cas says, with a slight wrinkle of his nose that's fucking adorable, “They do. They're still unfathomably annoying.”

“That’s _family_ ,” Dean says, dropping a hand from the steering wheel to graze Cas’ thigh for a brief second. “It was, uh - actually pretty awesome. Tonight.”

“No one died.”

“No one died,” Dean agrees, “No actual lawsuits were started.”

“ _And_ there was no actual yelling,” Cas says, eyes laser-focused on Dean’s cheek, “Dean, usually after these events I feel …. _doubtful_ of my motivations. I overthink things.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, because he _knows_ that. They’ve talked more or less around the subject and, anyway, Dean could write the book on the various hundred ways that family can make you crazy. He gets that. Fuck knows he gets _that_. “Cas, you’re fucking _great_ okay. All the damn time.” 

“It was… better with you there,” Cas says. He’s still looking directly at him so clearly he knows that that… that’s is a big goddamn deal he just dropped there. “Having someone in my corner.”

“I can do that,” Dean says, both hands back on the wheel as he meets his gaze head on in the rearview mirror. 

And the damn thing is that he actually _means_ it. 

*

Cas is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most captivating individual Dean's ever seen, especially when he emerges from the shower with sodden hair and one of Dean's towels wrapped around his waist, so freaking casual about it that Dean can't even deal with it. It's like he doesn't even _know_ that he’s sex-on-legs, hotter-than-hell mind-meltingly attractive, or that Dean’s whole brain is puree the second Cas looks at him with those eyes. Fuck. 

“Dean,” Cas says and that _voice_ reverberates around his head, bouncing around his head to turn into a freaking wind-tunnel of _hotness_. “You’re _looking_.” He sounds pretty smug about it as he sits on the corner of Dean’s bed to plug in his phone and the rest of that mundane crap that’s somehow _fascinating_ when Cas does it. Probably in part because of the butt-naked thing. 

“You’re fucking _beautiful_. Dunno how I ever used to look away.”

“The denial was deep,” Cas says, rolling into his space to kiss him. His towel only half twists with him which - _hello Cas_ \- and their legs slot together like they’re supposed to fit that way. “Deep pan _deep_.”

“No kidding." Dean says, "Let’s not do the big family roast again soon.” Dean mutters into his skin, “Next time, we get take out.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “And we deal with your family.”

“Deal,” Dean says, brushing their lips together. “January. Bobby’s -- Bobby’s visiting.”

“Good. You were... incredible today,” Cas says, one hand on Dean’s cheek, the other balled up in the bottom of Dean’s shirt that he really shouldn't be wearing when Cas is so deliciously naked. Being close to Cas is so goddamn _addictive_ and easy and just… nice. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Mhm,” Dean says, tangling his fingers through Cas’ hair and butter-in-a-pan melting into the touch. 

“You met my family,” Cas says, reaching forward to press a kiss onto his shower blade, skin still shower-warm. “You didn't freak out.”

“You freaked out,” Dean says, as Cas drops another kiss further down his chest; thumb tracing his goddamn nipple, and that _mouth_ with bite and promise and simmering heat.

“Yes,” Cas says, back up to his mouth. Deep, spine tingling kiss, then trailing back down his chest. “I did and you talked me down.”

“ Cas -”

“ - Dean,” Cas says, as Dean shifts to hook his leg around Cas’ to draw him in closer, which is a really freaking satisfying skin on skin contact, footbskimming Cas’ calf. He definitely intended for them to have an actual fucking conversation, but… Cas is cute and hot and close and Dean spends most of life wanting to kiss his damn face off. “Dean. I - I love you.”

Dean's stomach bottoms out.

Holy shit.

Ho _ly_ shit.

“Move in with me,” Dean blurts out, because _that's_ the correct response to that fucking statement.

At least he didn't Han Solo him. Much.

Cas sits up, which would be fine, except he's straddling him already, and that's a lot of unhelpful physical contact for the conversation Dean's pretty sure he kick started.

He... He already knew that, obviously, that Cas loved him. It's all over his goddamn blog and his face and floods off him in waves, but saying it out loud is a big freaking deal.

A little like asking someone to move in with you is a big deal.

Cas tilts his head at him very slowly.

“Did you just… panic on me?”

“ No. I mean - _yes_ , but - I was gonna ask you that anyway." Dean says, chest hammering. It's true and he's got the texts from Charlie to prove it, but he'd really rather not have to go down the freaking proving intentions route.

“To _move in with you_.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallows. Decides that it's gotta be goddamn worth it now he's started talking. “Yeah. I - fucking hate it when you go back to Gabriel's. Doesn't _feel right_ when you leave and - now you've got three goddamn jobs…”

“Dean,” Cas says, worrying his bottom lip as he looks at him. “I spent the day harassing you at work about potatoes.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “Cas. I - I want… I want you to be here when I get home. All the goddamn time. Not just… Most of the time and- dude, you were here thirteen nights out of the past two goddamn weeks. I can… I can cover the rent, but we can work some socialist pro-rating bullshit if it makes you happy - or whatever you want - I. I just think you should live with me. I, I want you to.”

“You've thought about this.”

“For _weeks_.”

“I got cranberries on the ceiling.”

“Don't care,” Dean says, “Want you.”

“I tell you I'm in love with you and you ask me to move in with you.”

Dean feels like all of his internal organs are being fed through a pasta machine. Everything constricts and his heart starts beating at six thousand times a goddamn minute and - _oh god_ \- Cas with his beautiful fucking soul and his blog and his fingers curled around his coffee mug in the morning, with that panic in his eyes whenever Dean tells him to whisk something and his _everything_. Cas is fucking lovely and every single damn time Dean sees him he just - 

“I- same.”

“Same?” Cas asks, voice very even, but packed full of tension. 

“What you said,” Dean says, “That.”

Castiel smiles. Broad and charming. 

“That's the most romantic _that_ I've ever heard.”

“You're -- you’re mocking me.”

“Maybe a little,” Cas says, “Dean.”

“If you don't _want_ to -”

“ - That is definitely not what I said,” Cas says, head titled. “I…. I wasn't expecting you to say that.”

Dean’s chest turns arctic-roll cold.

“You haven't - haven't thought about it?”

“I have. At length,” Cas says, tempering his words with a hand on his knee. He _knows_ Cas. He knows his bullshit-voice (and, damn, he’s bad at it) and over the course of the day he’s become really acquainted with his stress-voice. Cas means it. Cas _has_ thought about it, which is good. Really good. Freaking… awesome. “I assumed it would take you more time to be _there_.”

“This _you’re not ready_ shit again,” Dean mutters, chest tight. God _damnit_. He definitely, definitely wanted this to go _better_ than this. He wanted to be all smooth and romantic and all that crap and instead he just flailed around, as fucking always. “ _Cas_. Cas, I -”

“ - _Yes_.” 

Dean swallows.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Cas says again, eyes bright as he leans forward kiss him, toe curlingly hot and as comforting as home cooked pie. It settles nostalgic and warm in his gut. He’s so goddamn _enigmatic_ and wonderful and they’re going to - they’re going to live together and Dean’s going to cook for him and one day really freaking soon Cas is going to have his writing-break and - and Cas, Cas said _yes_. 

* 

“Coffee,” Cas says, horse with sleep, bleary eyed and fucking exquisite with his bed head and Dean’s underwear on in that usual haphazardly sexy way that occasionally leaves him nonverbal. 

“Thanks,” Dean mutters, wedging his pillow under his head and watching him, “Dude, you know it’s the _morning_ right? AM. _Before_ noon.” 

“Thank you for that public service announcement,” Cas mutters, “I’m _being nice_.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, trying to stop himself from smiling too broadly. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, “I called you in the middle of service about _potatoes_ and you humoured me. I’m cooking you breakfast in bed and banning you from leaving bed until an hour before you’re due back at the restaurant.” 

“What if I need to take a leak?” 

“You may have _three_ urination breaks,” Cas says, setting Dean’s coffee on the bedside table and leaning forward to brush his lips against his forehead, all casual and junk. Goddamnit. Cas is _moving in_. They need to have the serious adult conversation about all that to work out the bills and the timing and the rest of that crap, _but_ it’s gonna happen. “Use them well.” 

_He gets a next year_. 

“Dork,” Dean mutters, sinking back into his pillows. “What’s for breakfast?” 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, watching Cas hea back towards the bedroom door with a smile he probably wouldn’t be able to chase off his face if he could. Damnit. 

Dean leans over to retrieve Cas’ laptop from under his bed (where it lives, like, six nights a goddamn week, soon to be seven, because Cas writes in bed with the screen tilted in the wrong direction not to keep him up) and opens up a draft blog post. 

_Review: Castiel’s fake-Thanksgiving dinner._

Cas never really got into the details of that whole _thing_ with Dean disappearing from his blog with illusions to a breakup, then reappearing for Cas’ first cooking lesson (Grilled cheese: how not to fuck it up), partially because it was sensitive topic for a while and a lot because it’s not actually anyone else’s freaking business. 

There’s _speculation_ though. 

Three different theories about how Dean probably cheated on him, two about political differences and none of them as goddamn ridiculous as the truth. Dean would put money on it having been good for Cas’ hit-count because every single time Dean’s even _mentioned_ the comments roll in, and Cas doesn’t skip on weaving Dean into his damn blogs. He’s there in the _Lesson 68: cream is not the same as milk_ post and the _Dean’s leftover wine Sangria Chicken_ which is a whole goddamn transcript of Dean explaining how to cook it ( _You wanna turn it up hot, Cas. Summer day’s hot. Doctor sexy hot. Okay. Then oranges. Fresh, ideally, buutt I haven’t bought groceries for a week, so we’re gonna improvise._ ) Dean’s all over Cas’ blog because he’s _all over_ Cas’ life in the best freaking way, like cilantro and goddamn everything and - 

And it’s about time for a guest blog. 

Dean sets his coffee down.

He can smell Cas burning breakfast in the background and it’s practically fucking idyllic. 

He writes _the first time Cas review my food he said it was ‘adequate’ and ‘closeted- almost subdued’ and the second time he wrote that it was ‘surprisingly endearing’ and some extended spiel about second chances. That’s why second chances are important, folks (even if you don’t know those chances relate to the second person at the time)._ They can do the detective work themselves. He writes that Cas’ stuffing was _objectively crap, but made with enough good intentions and effort that you kind of love it anyway. Like when someone’s kid draws a picture of you and you look like a freaking fat ass blob with an attitude problem, but you still put in on your fridge for three years and feel proud of it_ and he writes that Cas’ turkey was _actually straight up fucking awesome, no caveats attached_ and he writes that it’s _good down to the core_ with _bottomless strength_ and _dignity in defeat_. He writes that Cas is a total fucking badass - explicitly - and he writes that it’s a goddamn privilege to have him put in the work so _Dean_ gets something to eat.

He clicks the laptop shut just before Cas re-enters with what could be pancakes. 

He doesn’t post it. _That_ decision is up to Cas, but Dean's pretty sure that he will make a good call.

The probably-pancakes are surprisingly delicious: buttery, warming and sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 1AM, but I'm due to go camping tomorrow for 8 days and didn't think I could wait to post this till I got back. 
> 
> Please accept my formal apology for not as much panties as I intended to fit in. This chapter did turn into a mammoth 7.7k thousand words and I just... definitely ran out of time. 
> 
> THANKS so much for joining me in this story. I had a blast and I'm blown away by the number of responses. Y'all awesome.
> 
> I wish you all yummy food etc.


End file.
